i must not get takeout. takeout is the wallet-killer. takeout is the little-death that brings total obliteration. i will face the kitchen, fridge, and pantry. i will make choices about what to cook and then execute them. when hunger is gone there will be nothing. only i will remain.
could talk about the grand dramaturgy of succession dialogue forever. a great majority of the most poignant lines are half incoherent, gramatically fucked, all just bits and pieces of images put into words poorly, its such a shakespeare move and such a bold and confident use of language like it really does floor me. we think these grand horror things, at times like these, these ice shelves are gonna come at us in the night and take our heads off. its not true. he was an old bastard. and he loved you
ALT
