corvus monedula, corvus monedula

Sometimes I wish I could dig a huge hole and I would sit right at the bottom of it for days and days and days with just some paper and a pen. I would write and write and write about the things that I hate about the world and the things that I hate about myself and the things that I hate about others and the things that I secretly love but pretend that I hate and I would bind the paper with a red ribbon and shut it in a wooden box and bury the box and then bury myself.

One day in the faraway future, a wooden box would wash up on some foreign shores to be found by someone, by anyone, walking by and thinking about all the things that they hate about the world and about themself and about others. He or she or it or would open the box and untie the ribbon and read every last word of my story and then perhaps, just perhaps, they wouldn't feel so peculiar anymore.

look at his little face.