samantha yang.
Saturday, April 12

Friday, March 14

7:26 AM

I can feel death’s fingers at my throat

these eyelids are not yet heavy,
blood’s rhythm has not yet slowed,
oxygen’s flow has not yet frozen,

but I can feel it lurking
hm hm hm

waiting for my weakness
waiting for the tears
the begging, the desperation

BUT NAY it shan’t break me
I will trample it with the valiant steed of
a nap later in the day perhaps

1 note
Thursday, February 20

I’m sorry but

I find myself thinking of you
a lot.

Do I need to? No.
But can I help it? No.

Bah. Humbug.

Friday, February 7

first time messing around with samples
frank sinatra clips la dee daaah

1 note
Monday, December 30

Let us now have a look at this mouse in action.

Suppose, for example, that it, too, is offended (and it is almost always offended), and it, too, wishes to take revenge. For it may have stored up even more spite than l’homme de la nature et de la verite. The nasty, base little desire to pay the offender back with the same even may scratch still more nastily in it than in l’homme de la nature et de la verite, because l’homme de la nature et de la verite, with his innate stupidity, regards his revenge quite simply as justice;whereas the mouse, as a result of its heightened consciousness, denies it any justice. Things finally come down to the business itself, to the act of revenge itself. The wretched mouse, in addition to the one original nastiness, has already managed to fence itself about with so many other nastinesses in the form of questions and doubts; it has padded out the one question with so many unresolved questions that, willy-nilly, some fatal slops have accumulated around it, some stinking filth consisting of its dubieties, anxieties, and, finally, of the spit raining on it from the ingenious figures who stand solemnly around it like judges and dictators, guffawing at it from all their healthy gullets. Of course, nothing remains for it but to wave the whole thing aside with its little paw, and, with a smile of feigned contempt, in which it does not believe itself, slip back shamefacedly into its crack. There, in its loathsome, stinking underground, our offended, beaten-down, and derided mouse at once immerses itself in cold venomous, and above all, everlasting spite. For forty years on end it will recall its offense to the last, most shameful details, each time adding even more shameful details of its own, spitefully taunting and chafing itself with its fantasies. It will be ashamed of its fantasies, but all the same it will recall everything, go over everything, heap all sorts of figments on itself, under the pretext that they, too, could have happened, and forgive nothing. It may even begin to take revenge, but somehow in snatches, with piddling things, from behind the stove, incognito, believing neither in its right to revenge itself  nor in the success of its vengeance, and knowing beforehand that it will suffer a hundred times more from all its attempts at revenge than will the object of its vengeance, who will perhaps not even scratch at the bite. On its deathbed it will recall everything, adding the interest accumulated over all that time, and… But it is precisely this cold, loathsome half-despair, half-belief, in this conscious burying oneself alive from grief for forty years in the underground, in this assiduously produced and yet somewhat dubious hopelessness of one’s position, in all this poison of  unsatisfied desires penetrating inward, in all this fever of hesitations, of decisions taken forever, and repentances coming again a moment later, that the very sap of that strange pleasure I was talking about consists. It is so subtle, sometimes so elusive of consciousness, that people who are even the slightest bit narrow-minded, or who simply have strong nerves, will not understand a single trace of it.

Tags: fyodor dostoevsky
Wednesday, December 4


what careless words do. They make people love you a little less.”

Tags: arundhati roy
2 notes
Monday, November 25

Thursday, November 21

early morning

(I don’t have)

oh to be shook awake and
immediately form coherent
thoughts, without batting
a single eye

(on the contrary, I’d
mumble anything that rose
to my lips, a beat or two
before the brain)

I don’t think I’d be capable
of telling lies before sunup
without you being able to tell.

1 note
Monday, November 18
late night insomnial sketches
of.. something…??

late night insomnial sketches

of.. something…??

Monday, November 11

to accompany a stroll through the first proper snow of the year

Friday, November 8

I think I can

I think I can 
I think I can
I think I can
I think I can
I think I can

1 note
Monday, November 4

the prophecy

that became of the

"I’m getting too attached to you."

Sunday, November 3


I’ve decided

it’s not the drama of this
that makes me cling
to you.

Tuesday, October 29

Thursday, October 24

and when in your

groggy) stupor,

you still wait for my
hand in yours to settle,

you still pucker your lips
for my reassurance,

you still reach out and
draw me nearer,

I cannot help but

what am I to do
(with you
with me)

1 note