All I want is you.

You know that teddy bear you had when you were a kid and how your heart will always be tied to it a little, just because it was the root of your childhood? Or that kid that teased you in fifth grade and fell in love with you in middle school? Our hearts are scattered onto objects stitched with memories, and people that change us. But out hearts are also tied to places. Whether it's a bedroom, a coffeeshop, or a city in Massachusetts. When you're there, you know that it's exactly where you're supposed to be. When you're there all you want is for it to last. Your heart becomes tied to that place. Then you leave, and it's all you can think about. The weird thing is you don't get to choose these places, you just come across them and know. Kind of like how you don't get to pick who you fall in love with. You don't get to pick which places your heart ties to. Your heart does.

Sunlight, midnight, moonlight, true life.

There's something about Summer at night. When you lay in the road and absorb the pure youth in heat, it stays. You go insde and you're warm for hours. Because of one single moment. One lovespark.

131st.

The world is a street at night. The followers of Christ, the only truth, are the streetlamp. The streetlamp that somehow always remains glowing in the darkest night. The streetlamp brings the doubt out of the shadows it casts. The entire world is one street, with one streetlamp. All light comes that single streetlamp. So shine brighter.

Welcome to the little town of Nothing Happens Here.

We strive for contentment, when all the while we're forgetting to live.

Mr. Blue

I've accepted that you won't understand. You'll never get it. You'll never truly believe me. You. Are brilliant. You know how to say things through text that other people don't even know how to feel. You're my best friend. Honestly. Seriously. You're a retarded douche bag and completely oblivious to yourself. Your words are gloriously tragic. I ve accepted that you'll never know or grasp how inspiring you are. You. Keep me sane. Undoubtedly. You tell me to be okay, and you're often the only reason I am so. I meant it. I mean it. I love you.

The white dove dies red.

Perfection is suicide.
Perfection is disgusting and impossible, so just don't even try.
Perfection is a state of numbness towards yourself and everyone else. No paint on your hands. No calloused fingers from guitar strings. No messy bed hair, or mascara from last night.
To be perfect you must drop everything that makes you you.
So don't.
Because simply being who you are is ultimately more right.

Have a good day.

You're looking for something you can't find.
If you give it up you'll lose your mind.