ღιи †he иιgнτ עouя ħeaяτ ιs ƒoolιиg ьע the moиeע emptע Buт bαbע ιm tнe oиe ωнo leƒt עoϋ,עoϋ're иot thє oиe ωнo leƒt meღ

When I look back on my life, it’s not that I don’t want to see things exactly as they happened, it’s just that I prefer to remember them in an artistic way. And truthfully, the lie of it all is much more honest because I invented it. Clinical psychology tells us arguably that trauma is the ultimate killer. Memories are not recycled like atoms and particles in quantum psychics, they can be lost forever. It’s sort of like my past is an unfinished painting and as the artist of that painting, I must fill in all the ugly holes and make it beautiful again. It’s not that I’ve been dishonest, it’s just that I loathe reality. For example, those nurses, they’re wearing next season Calvin Klein, and so am I. And the shoes, custom Giuseppe Zanotti. I tipped their gauze caps to the side like Parisian berets because I think it’s romantic, and I also believe that mint will be very big in fashion next Spring. Check out this nurse on the right, she’s got a great ass. Bam.