I'm Jess, but you can call me Alaska if you prefer. I like books, nosebleeds, gardens, floral prints, pretty things, spring and Sylvia Plath.
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"It didn’t matter in the end how old they had been, or that they were girls,
but only that we had loved them, and that they hadn’t heard us call;
still do not hear us, calling out of those rooms where they went to be alone
for all time, alone in suicide, which is deeper than death,
and where we will never find the pieces to put them back together."
The Virgin Suicides
But names, once they are in common use, quickly become mere sounds, their etymology being buried, like so many of the earth’s marvels, beneath the dust of habit.
This morning I am at low ebb. I did not sleep well last night, waking, tossing, and dreaming sordid, incoherent little dreams. I awoke, my head heavy, feeling as if I had just emerged for a swim in a pool or warm polluted water. My skin was greasy, my hair stiff, oily, and my hands as if I had touched something slimy and unclean. The thick August air does not help. I sit here lumpishly, an ache at the back of my neck. I feel that even if I washed myself all day in cold clear water, I could not rinse the sticky, untidy film away; nor could I rid my mouth of the furry unpleasant taste of unbrushed teeth.
— Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals