"The irrational completes us."
- The Book of Lights, Chaim Potok


TERRIBLY SANE

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THE DIARY OF PETRICHOR




petrichor ['pe-trÍ-ko(r) or -tri-]
the smell of rain on dry ground.


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----RECENT ENTRIES----
- - Saturday, Apr. 22, 2017
- - Thursday, Aug. 07, 2014
- - Friday, Mar. 14, 2014
Alone By Lack of Self-Trust - Tuesday, Oct. 01, 2013
Yearning for Tears - Sunday, Sept. 29, 2013

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zwischen Saturday, Apr. 22, 2017 - 11:46 mensch


IF ANYONE STILL READS THESE OBSCURE, QUIET THOUGHTS, MY GUESTBOOK HAS FINALLY BEEN FIXED.

Last entry in 2014. What the fuck. Life. I will say this though. For the first time since I was not even a teenager, I haven't had sincere death wishes for myself. Nothing concretely has changed. This is what is weird. I have no love life. I have no Life Purpose. Etc. Yet. I no longer have any sincere death wishes for myself. I wish I could explain why. However, like most introspective interpretation of one's self, it is not objective, not actually fluid, and changeable. But that's it for now. Who knows when the next update might be.

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ter∑ri∑bly 1. in a terrible manner. 2. extremely; exceedingly; very. [Colloq.]




















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