I never know what’s going to come out of my mouth, and it’s horrible. I don’t find it positive in any way. When I get older, I’ll be more mature and poised. And I’ll have control over my mouth. One day, I’m going to grow up… When we leave, I’m going to have a knot in my stomach. I’m going to be like, “Oh, did I say something wrong? I’m going to get in trouble!”
[the use of deep variations in and subtle gradations of light and shade, esp. to enhance the delineation of character]
chiaroscuro + the golden three for obrozey
Is this really what we want to do? Kill ourselves off completely? In the hopes that–what? Some decent species will inherit the smoking remains of the earth?