look at it. look at it. my god. plaster cornice. dark paint. flowers. gilded vintage anything everything. i love it so much. how. how do i do this.
it’s weird that i’m listening to Nice White Parents, the moment barbara and imie (?) intersect, and … sweet god. i never want to be that person who can’t hear how she sounds. “self-awareness” is a burden you owe to everyone around you. does caring about a plaster cornice make me like that, at a moment when a quarter of the country is gonna get evicted?
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