Meet Alfred ‚Edgelord’* Housman, telling you to kys since 1895.
He’s probably just fucking with us on this one though. Ironic or not, suicide abounds in A Shropshire Lad, jolly good read before bedtime.
I’m still wallowing, in Sherlock, in The Invention of Love, and now in OG Victorian Death Poetry. Ah.
As the end of the semester draws near, term papers loom large once more, casting their monstrous shadows on my humble lodging’s walls.
I really need to sleeeeeep.