mechanical pencils & paper hearts

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half blade, half silk
"Every word we utter is but the utterance of a drowsy phantom in our blood, the opening of the lips of a spectre. For this reason
in rare moments of self-consciousness our voice sounds strange, far away, not ours. It is the sudden perception of that great
truth: We are not ourselves."
▼
  Benjamin De Casseres, Chameleon  (via intrawar)

(Source: poeticsofdeath, via hemaera)





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