astra

I'm finding insane facts in my notes that I'd already forgotten, then spinning out about them all over again. She remains the pilot star.

I didn't even get to the school-themed episode until today 😩

the feminine urge to punch paul h*llywood square in the jaw

giving myself chills, so many more than he ever did

blast off, baby. baby, blast off.

when I write something, then later notice a dozen clever connections buried within it that I didn’t consciously intend, I still take every drop of credit

plotting to occupy the holes in the story, to fill them full of Her

sometimes, when I fantasize about a tour for the next book, I slip into a full on fugue state

curious about the things people will uncover hundreds of years from now and take too literally or not understand at all. also curious about the truths that will slip through.

first semester of college. some boy, sitting next to me in class, doodling chastity belts, writing, “what a waste” over and over. medieval chastity belts weren't even a real thing—it was a crude joke rooted in misogyny and male anxiety.

flaunting my new cap and bells. aiming for mischief, not folly.

I love when ideas loom so large that I don’t feel the need to record them right away; the choice notions that I know will continue to fester, to spawn new life in the dark and then slither back when I need them, stronger than ever.

feeling a special kind of shameless. I carved off a pound of his flesh today, just for me. there’s an exquisite satisfaction in leaving him scratching his head.

he poured so many words into me about the things he held sacred

You are the authority

there's one surefire way to feel even more creeped out by orson krennic...

"think about what this man has done thus far. a man who does what he does is specifically seeking an outlet for gothic heroine behavior."

I think about this daily.

it is curious how many of us feel thespis's hand on our backs, nudging toward Him (and Her). must be the heightened empathy. certainly can’t think of any other traits to explain it.

the targeted ads for “thinking *f you” found me so fast (🎭+✝️)

last night I dreamed he was doing a show, saw me in the crowd. after, we took turns poking at the past. then he brought me backstage, burst into tears. my only impulse was to comfort. I can still feel my hand on his back.

in that first fan letter, age 15, I used “I” as an object 5x

I feel revoltingly unfaithful when I try to write about this…the door still slightly ajar. I pretend I’m an anthropologist—observing, dissecting. but I know that’s not all I’m doing.

a huge draw is the hunt for evidence, proof that It Was Real. but those moments also give a jolt of power and a thrill I still can’t shake. these are inevitably the bigger draw.

a string of awkward messages, the suggestion of a suggestion—still so eager and unsure. I resent the buzz that worms its way through my veins, but I smirk imagining the same sensation, mirrored, miles away.

adrenaline tries to seep through my fingertips, to inject pathetic moments with an absurd braggadocio. still, still, still…

I survey the ample space between sparse lines; there’s so much relief in not having to pretend that it’s Good anymore. I can fill it with anything I want now.

had too much **** last night, then started spiraling because everything I encountered online felt like a psy*p.

some of you have never been blasted into a state of ineffable transcendence and it shows

if s*x doesn’t feel like a threesome with God then I don’t want it. I’ve had better.

I took a flight today with a captain savage (f) and first officer lore (m). hope they talked to each other.