I don't fucking care.

"When the emptiness in you grows too large,
You fill it's vaulted chamber with the ash of memory,
With the dust of desire."

From the book, Wormwood by Poppy Z. Brite

I do not trust the spirit. It escapes like steam
In dreams, through mouth-hole or eye-hole. I can't stop it.
One day it won't come back. Things aren't like that.
They stay, their little particular lusters
Warmed by much handling. They almost purr.

--Sylvia Plath

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