Fun fanfic trope idea borne from Criminal Minds:
Eviler Twin
Good Twin, Bad Twin - except they’re both evil, one is just worse.
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Ama Codjoe, from Bluest Nude: Poems; “Bluest Nude”
[Text ID: “I crave. I want to be seen clearly or not at all.”]
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Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own
[originally published 1929]
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It was April and she was the saddest thing under the sun.
Khush Bakht via wordedarchive
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Ruth Madievsky, All-Night Pharmacy // Suzanne Scanlon, Promising Young Women // Robin Roe, A List of Cages // Hayao Miyazaki, Kiki's Delivery Service // Susan Sontag, As Consciousness is Harnessed to Flesh: Journals and Notebooks, 1964-1980 // D. H. Lawrence, The Plumbed Serpent // Jennifer S. Cheng, "So We Must Meet Apart" // Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart // Alice Oseman, Radio Silence // Franz Kafka, Letters to Felice
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"People empty me. I have to get away to refill."
– Charles Bukowski
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Albert Camus, from a letter to Maria Casarès written in August 1948
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Bilal Al-Shams, Sacrifice
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The little girl’s sense of secrecy that developed at prepuberty only grows in importance. She closes herself up in fierce solitude: she refuses to reveal to those around her the hidden self that she considers to be her real self and that is in fact an imaginary character: she plays at being a dancer like Tolstoy’s Natasha, or a saint like Marie Leneru, or simply the singular wonder that is herself. There is still an enormous difference between this heroine and the objective face that her parents and friends recognize in her. She is also convinced that she is misunderstood: her relationship with herself becomes even more passionate: she becomes intoxicated with her isolation, feels different, superior, exceptional: she promises that the future will take revenge on the mediocrity of her present life. From this narrow and petty existence she escapes by dreams.
Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex
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Bianca Stone, from What Is Otherwise Infinite: Poems; “Cutting Odette’s Fingernails”
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𝙵𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝟷, 𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟸
𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝙾𝚏 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚣 𝙺𝚊𝚏𝚔𝚊, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟺-𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟹
[ID: February 1. Nothing, merely tired. END ID]
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Flowers only, and the moonlight coloured May.
Virginia Woolf, The Waves
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