I’m addicted to where hard science fucks ancient myth in the dark. I read neuroscience till my eyes burn at 3 a.m., then cry over Greek tragedies at dawn. Black holes are perfect metaphors for the pull of someone you can’t keep
I’m Kate. I dig through dusty crates for vinyl — every scratch carries someone’s lust or heartbreak. I dance barefoot in thunderstorms till my dress clings like skin. My camera hunts shadows fucking light on abandoned platforms.
Turns Off
I’m Kate. Happiness isn’t a destination — it’s the balls to keep asking questions that rip your chest open, together. Vulnerability is my only religion. I’ve felt closer in one hour of silent eye-fucking than in years of small talk.
