I want to lick this journal in between its pages and smear myself in it. I want to be its beating heart, the one that goes Boom, Boom, Boom.
Why does man always want what he doesn’t have? Why not content himself with the stuff he does have? Does the man who has everything become bored to death? When I think of topics like this, I tell myself the content of my journal should have a more serious tone. I have nothing else to write, here are some quotes I made up.
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I’ve never had the courage to be someone else, so I stayed myself.
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