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requiemi’m so dissatisfied with myself as a human being
i’m not a very nice person
i am hate
i am resentment
i am the embodiment of blackness
i’m not good at my hobbies because other people are people better
other people are
i am such a monumental fuck up
and when i look in the mirror
Sherlock: Season 3 Ep 1 - Opening SceneSherlock knew exactly which table in which Dr. Watson was sitting at. John Watson had made a reservation at the restaurant for 7.00pm this evening and it was currently 7.30 and it looks as if though his date was running late and that’s why Dr Watson kept glancing at his watch then back at the menu, trying to deliberate what to eat to try and take his mind off the fact that he could be being stood up. Sherlock, who was wearing his favourite coat and deep purple shirt with black trousers (that he only wears because it’s the law), entered the dimly lit room, his eyes fixated on his roommate. Noticing things about his appearance, noticing things about the table; in basic terms and in true Sherlock form, noticing everything. As he paced up to table 75, Dr. Watson -who was still unaware that his best friend who he thought to be dead was only a few metres away from him- was now glaring rather angrily at the menu for no particular reason to do with the food and taking a large
S.A.DWell hello there depression my good friend,
What such delights do you bring me this time?
The lack of a friendly ear to lend?
O' what a cruel notion! O' friend of mine!
Can you not have mercy, for I grow weak?
And weaker along with ev'ry season.
As the months get darker it's the light I seek,
I need the sun now, I have a reason.
It keeps me afloat in the sea of dark,
An' gives me the endorphins that I lack,
But here is the winter, leaving its mark.
And the voices inside my head have come back,
And I can't escape it or them,
I am most definitely bad again.
Bo.When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
Bo sat on the bed and said nothing.
Her father kissed her good night and turned out the light.
“Why can’t Dad see you?” she asked.
“Are you real?”
“Are you real?” he replied.
“How do you know?”
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