The test subject.
(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)
The terror of cognizance in the face of having to live the rest of one’s life in the shadow of mental illness is a terror that is beyond words.
On the drive to work this morning I gave right the fuck in to impulse buys spurned only naturally from the multitude of mesh bins or plastic tubs packed chaos-full of sale items. I picked up a gallon of bleach and a two-gallon carton of powdered laundry detergent. Our office takes up one full floor as well as a good portion of the floor above that, and despite it being a Thursday, when most standard accounts were being wrapped up while the newest ventures were in phases of being marginalized and substantiated, I was able to cover every fish tank in the company, adding in a shot-glass’ worth each of the sale-item cleaning agents purchased earlier from the department store. Inside of one half of a shift, every single fish inside of each tank was dead.
(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)
I was buried in a pinewood casket with my sisters, beneath the grandstand of Town Square, which was the center of our small-town universe. We lived in the casket together until the end of eternity.
(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)
Broken lamps were situated all around the set-up apartment atmosphere. All said, these rooms gave off the appearance of occupancy. Or the idea of livability.
(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)
I care about nothing and I live my entire life expressly for you.
(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)
(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)
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