Paper Bags & Napkins




Project 365



I've been reading you for a while, and I'm really curious to know a few novels and films that have inspired you/struck something in you, if you don't mind.


I am terrible at naming favourites when asked about them. I did make a list of novels when asked once before, and you can find that list through this link, but I will say that there is much that this list leaves out:

I love films. I love watching them and the whole process of going out to see them in a cinema. I feel as though no matter which films I named for you in this post, I would come back and wish I had mentioned others. I will name one with the hope that it will pique your interest enough to continue the conversation, so please send me a message un-anonymously and we’ll talk about it.

One film that has stayed with me long after watching it is Candy.

wow your shit is amazing. really, it's inspiring to see such work from another writer. how long have you been writing, and how often?

Thank you! I’m always both amazed and honoured when a fellow writer tells me that my work has inspired them.

I have been writing for as long as I can remember. I have had this specific Tumblr blog for 5 years now. I didn’t realize when I started writing here in 2009 as a 16 year old girl that I would still be doing it in 2014.

I don’t write as often as I would like to. I let life get in the way too much. I try to update my blog at least a few times a month, with some months being a lot more productive than others.

It was encouraging to hear from you. Thank you again for your kind words.

More Than Melancholia

You threw darts and handfuls of dust into the mouth of the abyss. It only opened wider to feed on more of your resistance. You tried to appease it by submerging only your feet, but it was a hungry problem that always begged for more. Soon you were shoulders deep and barely keeping your chin up. The pressure bore holes in your resilience and gushed through like water erupting onto the decks of an already sinking ship. You went down, swam the depth of the blue, and never came back up.

Cuts and Scrapes

The advice makes it seem as though ripping off band-aids is noble. Children everywhere peel the coverings from wounds in single swift motions and call it bravery. But there are injuries meant to be left undisturbed until the pain is forgotten and only slowly unwrapped even then. Sometimes most of the courage lies in waiting.


They took pictures of the famous faces and stood in line for autographs. At the end of the day you would find posters and other paraphernalia marked ‘special edition’ in their bags.

They clapped hands against backs, congratulating each other on a good day of chasing idols who wear sunglasses — shading their eyes from a world too bright with admiration. Or perhaps closing their eyes for a moment behind those black screens, counting the ways in which they would be pieced up and tossed to the adoring masses for collection.

Tomorrow they will continue to cast themselves at the base of the pedestals, as though they are kneeling in pews, prostrating at altars. And there will be no answer to the question of whether it is the lovers or their beloveds that are the victims.

trapdoorcity replied to your post: I still flinch when you handle cutlery.

God, this was powerful.

Thank you. It is so rewarding to hear that I’ve managed to convey a feeling with impact.

zaedilux replied to your post: The Sound That Killed Him

you’re writing again! hurrah!

Let’s hope I can keep it up!

I still flinch when you handle cutlery.

There is an art to making an action look sinister. The boy who lived across the street from my childhood home had it mastered at only six years old. Walking home from school, I would often see him sitting on his porch steps turning a rock over in his hands. He never did anything other than roll a pebble around his palm, but it conveyed to me only the beginning of a much more dangerous movement.

I learned how to sense a threat, but not how to prevent it. So when I noticed a similar tendency in the way you held your glass, taking a drink over the sink, or the way you spun your keys before unlocking the car door, I did nothing. The neighbour boy I had always escaped by stepping as quickly as I could towards my front door. Where could I hide from you in a house we shared?

I convinced myself instead that love made all the difference.

Not a storybook diner girl.

She was always eating pan-fried dumplings at the dim sum place below my apartment at odd hours of the night. And she always seemed tired as hell — with smeared war paint for dark circles and a voice that sounded like a perpetual yawn when she placed her order.

At least once a week, she would be there, flipping through a black notebook in the corner of the restaurant, her eyelids bobbing up and down sleepily. I thought sometimes about starting up a conversation with her, romanticizing the idea of two regulars developing a friendship, but it wasn’t as though Hopper had painted us into Nighthawks or anything.

Besides, the only thing I would have had to say to her would be to ask why she didn’t just go home and go to sleep.

Fault Line

I saw her walking over to a quieter corner of the room with her new circle of friends. She had her hands behind her back, opening and closing the clasp on her wristwatch. The fiddling told of a mind that was already on other things.

Moments after they chose their territory, I watched the conversation split down the middle. She stood there in the center, not choosing a breakaway group to join. Her mouth twitched as though she was going to say something whenever a phrase in either side of the divided chit-chat piqued her interest. But she kept vigil almost religiously in silence. And no member of either party seemed to notice.

As far as they were concerned, the earth itself had torn in two, and she had fallen into the cavernous darkness that swallowed up all things that no one cares to acknowledge.