all about the kettle

The kettle was noisy in the background. It was ready to eject its little emergency feet (they all have them) and run off from the burning stove spiral.
The floor under our knees was getting warmer.

The kettle was almost at the point of suicide, but us two, we were at the point of forgetting our parents and we would have if that puzzle did not guarantee to be completed some time in the future. I do not even own a kettle, so that one was imaginary anyway, so do not judge us for being bad parents to our kettles or anything. We are coffee drinkers anyway. And that coffee shop franchise was having a lottery: you could win a glorious pile of stuff if you lucked out and got the cup that had a golden ticket under its rim. So we were buying those coffee cups at that time and rolling up the rims, like mad, believing, never losing faith, waiting, waiting, being unreasonable, waiting...

Tomorrow morning we will have to fly across the completed part over to the opposite end and try to finish the whole thing.

I am hoping the house is not too offended by us being so negligent. After all, we simply let it be. We let it collect its own stories in tiny pieces of dust and puffy crumbs of lint.

daisies ladies

skin thin to touch feels like yours cold and thin
now i know what pills you were on
thin and cold snaky beauty
crumbs on pajamas
liters of coffee to kill cravings
takes fighting day and night to make such a good thing die
liters of coffee
and milk
and wooden mixing sticks
water glass
take the pills
easy and quizy like a daisy
recover from leucaemic nightmares
cup-sleeves
appear healthy
thin skin like yours thin pain painted thin mattress on the floor


orange marmalade
bags of childhood
crystals of sugar
walking home from ballet lessons
frosty evenings
crowds of rosy cheeks
sweet

tulips
familiarity and calmness
close to the ground
everything will be all right

stainless steel water can shiny
outdoors outside of the dorrs in the yard
dirty but shiny
country place, strawberries, crows, bike down narrow paths
far away in the dreamland me and Ulya, far away the paths made just for us

leg warmers for dancing
traveling on the bus
shopping with the girls
funny, FUNNY, bursting with laughter
faith and ambition
loving each other
jumping like children, knowing it is for the best to stay children
although far from being children
Danish food
beautiful Danes, horns on our heads

back to daisies

"I like clowns," the clown said, "All my friends are clowns."
I looked around, there was nothing but the desert and the sky. Nothing but dark orange and gloomy navy. There is reason in everything, and so there was a reason for a bus stop to have been placed right there, in the middle of the dry cracked flatness. A girl-clown and two boy-clowns were at the bus stop waiting. Every now and then the sound of applause came pouring forth out of the air, and the three clowns cordially thanked the surroundings. One of the boys always yelled "Thanks for coming late!" Half-offended and half-loving.

I gently invited the memory of the clowns from my childhood. They took the position together with their circus. They never came without the circus. The magnificent Moscow Circus was their only territory as my memory holds it. They were fantastically funny and screwy, and, as I remember, always the best part of any program for me, but the smell of their make up used to be so strong and repelling, that, sadly, my amazement was always cancelled by disgust.

"Yeah, I like clowns too," I lied, for the reason that there is always a potential.

If theatre is not physical, there is hardly any aesthetic wonder in it for me any more. It is easy to flick the switch of preferences, when by default they are all classical. Creative predators make your classical setup a desirable target. They throw themselves at you from every curtain, trying to convert you their way. They appeal to you effortlessly.

There is reason in everything, and so there was a reason for the bus stop with the clowns to emerge out of nowhere in the middle of Mojave. They will always be waiting for the bus, and the boy-clown will always yell "Thanks for coming late!" I will always say, "I like clowns too," and there will always be a confusion as to what my relationship with clowns really is.



In contrast, what has not happened yet possesses tremendous power to be changed, to be modified, and to reemerge in your dreamscape in as many different disguises as you have time for. "I like clowns too, let's have some coffee," you can say, never retrieving the armies of memories about clowns at all. But you can also say: "I like clowns too. Back in my childhood there were so many of them, performing exclusively as a part of a circus program, they were fantastic. And I never liked seeing poor animals being forced to do merciless stunts anyway. I only came to circus for the clowns. I only talked about them when adults asked what I had seen."

You can say: "Oh, I am completely free now and will follow you to your next planet, so where is the spaceship, will I turn into eggs and fibers as soon as we cross the Earth orbit, let's go, let's do it, for I am excited, so what should I pack" Or, conversely, you can say: "What are you expecting, you are such a clown and your make up stinks, and I am classically trained, and the only reason for you to be here is to make me laugh." Or you can just say: "If I can kiss you now, I will kiss you again and again, until I don't know where you end and I begin." and all the various optional ways and complications...

some days.
A monstrous ocean comes after you with a single wave, roaring itself hoarse, violent and icy. It never reaches you entirely, it never invades you all the way. Even though it keeps moving closer, you never move away. You are paralyzed by terror and anticipation. Somehow you know: if ever this wave actually covers you, it would not trample you completely. Instead, it would push you into tunnels of everlasting energy. You would lose the ability to rest.
Your apprehension of the threat from this ugly ocean, it covers you with its power and inevitability. Some days the wave is colder than other days. It is icier and longer lasting. Its presence is global and non-climatic.

I want to stop remembering. crazier. icier. colder. breatharrest. I am not tired. I cannot (will not) rest.

and then you throw yourself into searches. and then you push yourself off the ground over and over and over. watching with your heart through the closed eyelids. open the eyelids. shut them open. nothing changes. icy water dripping from your eyelashes. dry sand, ocean foam, and blood around your mouth. sickness to your vegetarian stomach. the sky darkens.

and then I throw myself back into searches.

anything. one word. one word. and then oh look here it is I see it how incredible. steam all over my insides. hot and burning. it kills me. as anything would if there is too much of it after nothing at all. a loaf of bread would kill you if you starved for weeks. one word kills me over and over.

I should never come back searching. so I will not.

And I never do.
not until the next time

Olympics

"You are like a microwave," I say, into space, and "You melt me with warmth progressing into heat from the inside to the outside."
"If you were a dish you'd be a spicy Mexican," I say, and "If you were a dish, you'd be something 100% organic, without any additives, and naturally sweet."


"If you were to point me in the right direction, which way would you point?"

Miscalculated twist due to apathic unconversion of the grumpy mornings.

a miracles curfew impending like a wake up alarm.

when you are hurting and I am hurting, to tackle the curtain of the obvious is ...

a stick of celery after a creamy latte




we made it up





Olympics season


There are seven incarnations (and six correlates) necessary to becoming an Artist: 1. Explorer (Courage) 2. Surveyor (Vision) 3. Miner (Experience) 4. Refiner (Patience) 5. Designer (Intelligence) 6. Maker (Experience) 7. Artist.
First, you must leave the safety of your home and go into the dangers of the world, whether to an actual territory or some unexamined aspect of the psyche. This is what is meant by 'Explorer'.
Next, you must have the vision to recognize your destination once you arrive there. Note that a destination may sometimes also be the journey. This is what is meant by 'Surveyor'.
Third, you must be strong enough to dig up facts, follow veins of history, unearth telling details. This is what is meant by 'Miner'.
Forth, you must have the patience to winnow and process your material into something rare. This may take months or even years. And this is what is meant by 'Refiner'.
Fifth, you must use your intellect to conceive of your material as something meaning more than its origins. This is what is meant by 'Designer'.
Six, you must fashion a work independent of anything that has gone before it including yourself. This is accomplished through experience and what is meant by 'Maker'.
At this stage, the work is acceptable. You will be fortunate to have progressed so far. It is unlikely, however, that you will go any farther. Most do not. But let us assume you are exceptional. Let us assume you are rare. What then does it mean to reach the final incarnation? Only this: at every stage, from 1 through 6, you will risk more, see more, gather more, process more, fashion more, consider more, love more, suffer more, imagine more and in the end know why less means more and leave what doesn't and keep what implies and create what matters. This is what is meant by 'Artist'.

[you know where this is from]
less means more
luge is sled when you do it with the Vikings in the Slagen countryside near the Oslo Fjord

heartquickening, hunger-confidence, 'no choice in overabusing our hardworking feet [but letting them rest and consequently having to reduce plate sizes is a decision]', it is atypical and abnormal but the way I see it, it rains harder under trees even though they filter and catch on leaves, the majority of time there is no rain and then wind shakes them tree branches to assure us that wind too can cause rain:

it rains harder under trees the way I see it

checkmated

there is a crack on the palm of my hand, again. sometimes there is so much feeling you want to bend the truth in half. and then you do. and then it's all just fucked

I miss that tiny room with a wide opening underneath the door, with a mattress on the floor, a black-and-white screen and food in bed. I hurt missing it. Just me and my roommates and every little hurting crawl out of my eyes wasting other souls.

That is what I want.

eclipses

it existed before but, in a cloak of the unfound, it never bothered, it never irked, it never burned

but here it is, forcefully stripped and grossly exposed, ugly, unexpected. it eclipses me

it existed all along, but was securely concealed, carefully undisturbed. we all calculated measurements for each other. but we miscalculated the collapse of time and the collapse of logic. the latter destroyed itself as the time protruded and left us only with taste. it left us with feeling and illumination of a glance. Unlike the Sophisticated-Diplomats-we-stood-in-front-of- each-other back then, in our madness, we now start foolishly manufacturing the truth, rebuilding our measurements.

without reliable foundation, our hysterical efforts fail us all. in the middle of the night we dream of making a step and in the real time we make a jerky movement with our feet underneath the blankets. we wake up with a feeling of failure.

we have built no foundation. we all failed ourselves.

back in that moment... circular existentialism. I was bleeding with burdensome writing. I was becoming a creature with ripped clothes and frizzy hair.
back in that moment it was happening. they were in love and they were bathing their art together. how could something happening so far away with no relation to what was happening to me at that point BURN with such pain later, now, at this moment.




and the worst is: all I have is time. wealth of time. the same will stay the same. nothing will progress or develop. just my thoughts and the prospect of them having to fight my state: little armies against the despotic tyrant.

that pain I remember, it echoes. window blinds. kissing. soaking up in the closeness of your breath and your skin.

marks on skin?

clearly not my intention to devote.

moment eclipsed. I lost my consciousness there with those words. I passed out.

how luscious are the moments of pure love. they are fleeting and unreliable, they will only happen once. too many loves will erase the meaningness of a simple embrace, the depth of a simple glance. the one, the only will stay a memory and nothing else. if this memory can ever be matched up with a feeling. if that feeling can ever unmistakably be brought up in the future with a lonely addition of a feeling of lonely...

I lost my consciousness. striking pain. but in my sick state of mind pain meant more then none of it. pain enriches me. oh the wealth of pain

"I *** not," - I uttered after an eternity passed us by. I heard my voice bounce off of the cluttered walls. had you noticed I passed out?

the only time we could ever meet, in your blushes and screams... Did you talk to me then? did you see me then?

we ate and cabbed away from each other. we had left each other to meet noone in particular, just the shadows of our supposed fans

and that was that, the pure moments erased by an event months later. climbing, reaching out, we have done it all. will there be an end?

"and you? how do you feel?"
"happy and sad. both at the same time."
"that means that you are in love"

step off the plane, I'd get you a bouquet, but I am sustainable, so here is a plant
it's tomorrow your body time but please don't tell me what's going to happen in the future
I want to see it for myself


a bare-footed boy-brute with a bold bean-shaped head, blood-red veins buried beneath his barked skin. bistered holes in place of eyes, bony-naked. stares at me from my mirror

let the stare glow. stare is harmless
two bats come to spend the night on top of the window screen on the ceiling. they are a couple. how poetic and not.

I like it. there is no sequence. there will never be sequence. the wrist watch was violated as I was locking the door behind me.
save it. I will only wear a watch when I really need to know what time it is

abavakava

Was it long time ago that I found you? Found. Was it that I found. you? found you.


(she would kiss and touch and look but she would not hug. I was watching her once as she awoke from wherever she was, uprose from my bed, reached for the glass of water - she always drank water as often as she could, gently, silently. An indispensable ritual, replenishing weary body. She got up and started towards the door, undressed as she were. I followed. I stopped her just as she extended her long artistic arm to the door knob. I embraced her, ready to torment myself in pleasuring her. She quietly allowed that. For a few rhyming moments we stood motionless, both facing the door: me, wrapped around her delicate soul and her, allowing that to me. And then she briefly turned her face to see my eyes and disappeared in the hall)

saw myself in dots and dashes, hidden forcefully by careful symbology - your courtesy extended - no need

I would hold his hand, I would look at him through his eyes, I would kiss, I would touch, but I would never let myself be exhausted by embrace. space clear and definite. and then the moments of cosmic closeness come to bring us both onto the very peak.

I rose up from the bed in that place where he was staying. I thought about putting on some clothes before going to the bathroom. But the house slept in its deafness and the courtesy of our hosts was careful and comforting. As I walked up to the door of our room he breezed in close behind me. A stove that emanated a steady heat. All that I ever wanted to do myself.
Unreasonable, what a warm word.

other spirits haunting your creative process - I looked at them and turned away: how can your world be something other than just ME...

standing before the clutter of prose, with my back turned to him. youwannaturnthelightoff?
sitting in the corner, pulled himself up by his eyes and heart. no.
his eyes, having briefly stumbled into my eyes, take off to wander freely. becauseIwannalookatyou.



I found. you.

I.found.you

many ghosts before you were gone again.

I ran for hours. Aggressive beats.

Wir sprengten jeden Rahmen als wir zusammen kamen war's wie eine Explosion und ich schw?r'
ich spur' die Erschutterung immer noch ich weiss du rennst und doch bist du erst nah und da
wenn du in meinen Armen liegst ich geh' zu Boden wenn du nicht mit mir fleigst

engine cars were stopping to let me cross the street in front of them. Horse carriages were splashing sidewalks with their magic softness. Citizens were generally pleasant, as usual, they were flashing me with rows of their teeth

I danced for hours. apple pinned on top of a pen.



Oh Baby, bitte bitte lauf lauf gib nicht auf ich hab' dich vermisst es fressen mich D?monen auf wenn du nicht bei mir bist ich tu' was du verlangst hab' keine Angst ich lass' dich nicht allein denn uns geh?rt die Welt wir k?nnen alles sein doch jetzt bist du auf dich gestellt

Later, dwarfs, gnomes, elves, fays, goblins, gremlins, hobs and imps spilled out on my street under pure moonbeams to carefully and cheerfully help me shovel the snow.

It was light in the evening after lamps went out. It was light from all the snow, which remained in the same quantity but shifted into neat little piles for our convenience. Some of it still untouched on tops of tree branches.

A glass of wine.
to knock me out.
A hot shower
not to wake up throughout the night.
But I did, soaked in sweat, quarter to three, power was out.

Kids are swinging from the powerlines
Noone is home so nobody minds

It wasn't light anymore. It looked like non-existence.

After all the horror films I've seen in the last two months, I expect you, spirits and ghosts, to jump at me from the mirrors of the darkened bathroom where I throw off my soaked pajamas and stand for minutes looking at the window in the ceiling.
The sky observatory.
It is blanketed with snow and safe guarded mystically by the moon. All I am afraid of in the seclusion of this dark house are the engine cars. Horror films characters invade my conscience briefly, not causing any distress. Maybe I am one of them?

Naked, confident in the blindness, I walk back into the bedroom. Power out, not even 00.00 on the electric clock. my isolation from light is complete and comprehensive. privatizing. Power out, but not my mind

und deshalb Baby lauf lauf bitte gib nicht auf up ich hab' dich vermisst swallow me

a single mental entity, no matter how much it stands out, no matter how brightly it shines through the gloomy, cheerless clouds of the rest of us.
it is so hard to find you, I have been searching for ages, you would think I can recognize you
by my own sorrow in your writing.
you would think I can tell whether it is your writing or not.
how are things between you and your lover, can I come and abduct you, I really want to, I really want to.
I have been searching for your writing, you would think I will see you, through your theatrical humor.
I've been making love to you, all this time, all this time, it has been so bright so powerful, you should be here to understand.
you are alone, are you alone? can I meet you in the middle? dig a tunnel and meet you.
I want to know you more
I want you more
I want you more

where are you

bus ride
no sleep
sea of music
for miles and miles
shower, work
can't eat, can't whisper
tired laughter
can't sleep

clinically approved
amount of waken hours

eyes lie
can't look, can't eat
eat

I can write a play
I can write a film
I pick up a phone
if you drink, come alone
meet with me

how very sad
can't even hold a pen
she says I should

the town wrinkles its pretty sidewalks
no place to walk

write and talk

the torn sprinkles
overkill

you create your play
nothing is left sacred
I'll just be here
teaching dance to anorexics

nutritious minds

before I have to
drown myself
in horror movies,
with pagan spirits
and feminist witches

I dissapear often
to tame someone other
and to stay responsible

of course

only one thing: of course





the cat, revisiting, sits across the hallway. the cat is rude and non-willing to kneel with us. his grey whiskers are notably throbbing, exhausted and rude, perspiring in this weather. the cat, with his drinking bottle, not willing to be considerate, almost vulgar in his showy carelessness

we are kneeling in front of each other.

both came

to kneel and to recollect

this time is perverted.

our usual efforts to keep the cat in a lyrical mood are now weak and shaky. we are now reaching the very targets we want to miss. bohemian clutter joins us for chatter
I want to turn and run. I turn and I see the cat, holding half a head.I smile and return

we remove ourselves. we ignore the cat. we have to ignore the cat. we ignore the cat. looking around, the cat's hair is all over the place. we have to ignore the place and it's all over

sore eyes - we used them as doorways, large and electric, the eyes.

stretched and sickly-inflamed, our eyeslots are now the closed doors. pick the right key, but the "closed down" sign is blindingly intense. it pulses

regretting that he came, the cat is chewing a stick of celery, bored and disgusted with our sickness

we are one and one and the cat



and then I forget what happened










except for this:
you said "you're so sweet" and "your hair smells nice" and "didn't you order wine?" and "you can have as much of my food as you want" and "too bad your bus is coming soon, I can't take you home with me right now" and "why don't you just do me tonight"

and before we died too suddenly we were on our way to your house and you said "I'm going to get you!" and "I am BAAAD" and " we're taking a taxi" - that last one without waiting for me to consent, which made me angry, of course, and sarcastic as we rode that last in our lives yellow engine kidnapper.

and before we died some more our profiles were in your mirror and ...

no window blinds on my skin.

and then we laid there dying, we laid there, dying.

I didn't know, how could I, it was ********. me laying with you, dying

not even one muscle of that smile was forced to destroy it
limitless, open, not even one muscle wanted to hold it back
not even one thought of escaping the naive state

however idealistic the suggestions, however true

bound

and...so..?

floating surfaces, surreal matters, so real, so real...

sitting in their presence was the cat who finally came home that day. he sat in the cupboard and wrote down what they were doing, the cups and the glasses

so what, they were sitting in each other's presence, both had to leave early before *****


what's the big deal, they were looking at each other, swallowing the air in between, strawberries and cream, strawberries and cream. just sitting and looking and that was enough, so what, what of it

the foam of every stormy fantasy was raising to the tops of the eyeballs, blurring, fogging, and the cat, among the cups and the glasses, put it all in nice little writing, good old chap, but what's the big deal, so what

just talking without interrupting, intellectual licking of what was the nervous endings, dissolving in their presence, the cups and the glasses
why would it matter, so what, meeting with each other every day forever at an agreed spot, sometimes he had to wait, sometimes she, what of it, pure moments of creamy lies, 10% cream, thick and white

bliss from simple presence, just like that, god how blissful, god bless, full of bright blues, blues in the sky, every blue, lots of blues,
talking and looking, the cat studying in the cupboard, taking the full portion of it, all of it, so what

and then blend in with some touching, almost unsupported by muscles and bones, raised by pure pleasure, generated by the presence, their hands were touching their faces, sliding off their cheeks, briefly climbing on top of their lips; pure heart and no support, just drowning in the singular motion of what seemed then as moon floating, what of it, so what

smiling and pulling without any visible support structures, floating, unstoppable, pleasurable to the crisis of pulling
looking at each other, they were pulling and kissing and touching and the surroundings were gentle and caring, the waiters, the drunk

and then oh the taxi drivers

and then nothing but them and the cat in the cupboard, now full of grapes and nuts and pretzels,
waves of subconscious streams, running under the ground, boiling the water in all the cups and glasses, producing bubbles, pure and strong, steam above the stream, power in their eyes, two metallic poles securely attached to each other by a hook in the air between their eyeballs

just being looked at by each other, just being in the presence of each other, and the cat, at an agreed spot, mad, touching, pulling, swallowing

so what's the big deal

but the... by me

But I did lay there with my eyes closed and their hands around my neck

With my eyes closed, I closed them in an act of rational doing, the act committed by me on my own, that is, the act was permitted to be by my action
With their hands around my neck, even though a thought of possible violence had crawled into my brain through the scalp opening that I consciously keep for the purpose of saving myself in an emergency
With their hands around my neck, even though it was not my territory and nobody was coming to check whether I would be all right, nobody even knew exactly where I was
With their hands on my neck, after I laid down to float on the water in that pool, my friend said it was so original

But I did go there late at night knowing it was the end of the world and whatever happens will forever stay in this world and will never matter to any of us after the crushing mess of the apocalypse

But I did follow them, who were walking backwards into their cave

But I did come back every time I said I would

But I did look into their eyes as deeply as I was capable of, unlimited by how deep I could afford, as it was completely up to me and nothing stayed in the way, not even my own considerations of my own emotions

But I did let them look into my eyes the very same way, without limiting, disclosing all, as much as they were willing to see, it was all theirs

but I did
and so did they
and we are even

but stupid
and ...................

Buratino walk

Unrecognizable, brightly white, striped by window blinds and violently courteous to each other, they walked up the highway and down the highway and then up the highway and then down again and then the soles of their feet were crushed into such a terrible bloody mess that they started taking taxi to hear the drivers address them with titles like 'sir' and 'madam', which was arousing and sad at the same time.




blended into one event, unrecognizable

pause

for whatever reason no music until we were so tired that had to watch the movie and pause our breathing exercises and then I said "you don't deserve the both of the CDs" but meant, of course, "I feel like hurting you" defenseless "oh really?.." (and then we paused the movie and deepened our lung cavities budda belly was not embarrassed even when was looked over from the side nothing was ever paused, really "oh really?.." REALLY nothing about THAT was ever paused it was our lives that we left in other universes that were paused its picture was still on the screen, still, with everyone in it frozen in awkward ill-timed positions, with grey horizontal lines cutting across) big mess allowed into my stomach delicious and non-lasting with a hangover for four long months no rushing no hesitation pause create the time you will say later that when you paused your life, that was when you lived it

As a Footnote

actual living space abandoned for the air in the mountains. moved into a background. gap space and not a real space. created another reality. treasures.

Once it was over, we just stepped out of it and went right back into the actual life. We got back into the trucks we drove before it all happened. Doing what we are told. We went back to the unsatisfied-kill-myself-for-someone-else-on-the-job-life.
We went back to staring at unreachable girls and boys who sit at a nearby table in your typical coffee place, fancying making love to them, getting kicked in our teeth by their lovers, getting back into our solitude trucks over and over again... Getting coffee, beer and blood all over our shirts as we drive through the life of routine and unhappennings.

abandoned living space. created life. universe just for US. Step outside of that ill-routine-natured reality. emerge ourselves in the non-reality. reading not the lines, communicating not the words, seeing not the surfaces. blurry minds. couldn't grasp the sequence of events. eternity of drunkenness. No rules. Just closeness. as a footnote. real, naked and without clothes, just loving and not overspilling. the most real. stepping out of life. The light. I saw our light as a footnote in the boring saga of life.

apparently

"Apparently"
It was an introductory act

my life a setting
refreshing beverages the props
me stage center

arriving consequences,
"well-calculated"..?
"designed-on-the-go"..?
throwing good words
at the dream
used-to-be sports bar.
eyes get right in.
APPARENTLY

crisis taxi

don't stay! let's do this sincerely.
crippled repeated thrilling affairs keep you alive? I want you so bad.
kick my throbbing h. with the chat phrase about phone conversation.

you are always responsible for those you've ................

crisis taxi. my hand on what I want.

don't stay. stop me. hail me a cab. tell me how we will...

pick me up early morning in the pajamas up the stairs down the stairs no bags no documents

no. just don't stay. this time only. beautiful crazy stupid moronic stuck-up swelling gentle

kick me kick me out don't be nice say how you use .......

break up to build what a formula

The Setting

Progressively attached. annoyed but patient - purchasing my karma. hugging the time to fly by an unhappened lover. intense facial expressions. orgasmic. butterflies before the storm. demand of equality. in control of the learning curve. kiss on both cheeks, adorable. do you have a good family? green water fountain reflected in the pond. green lust. slow. the keys to the mansion handed to me across the table with a sweet potato soup plate. my family would like you. rules of the game agreed upon. smoke responsibly. a hungry vegetarian. forget my memory at home. kineseology runs in the family. don't be ridiculous. underground sport. listerine doesn't sting, but makes our cheeks round. clock hammering on. last time. make it a mirror exercise. non-invasively invasive. will you remember me now? hair dye. urban aggressive. justice wears a wig. knives out. Law School, here I come

Progressively attached. pull me in pull me in. ahhhh. I'm in.

annoyed but patient - purchasing my karma. thank you for liking but I have a lover. patience conflicts with my interests but something is holding me patient and luke warm towards you. I am here. I will hug always.


hugging the time to fly by an unhappened lover.

intense facial expressions. interviewed by the two I will admire a year later. make out with them.


orgasmic. yes, you think, yes, you wonder, yes, I am here.

butterflies before the storm. demand of equality. in control of the learning curve. kiss on both cheeks, adorable. do you have a good family? green water fountain reflected in the pond. green lust. slow. the keys to the mansion handed to me across the table with a sweet potato soup plate. my family would like you. rules of the game agreed upon. smoke responsibly. a hungry vegetarian. forget my memory at home. kineseology runs in the family.

don't be ridiculous. of course I want to have sex with you. you are great. I want to have sex with you. sex with you. giggleee

underground sport. listerine doesn't sting, but makes our cheeks round. clock winding down. last time. make it a mirror exercise. non-invasively invasive. will you remember me now? hair dye. urban aggressive. justice wears a wig. knives out. Law School, here I come

I made a great impression on everyone that day.

“Talk. Just talk about anything. Don’t worry if the subject interests me at all. I want to hear a human being talk to me. So I won’t break down.” I’ve been there, I say. Oh yeah, he says and there is a pause. Someone died, he asks. Yes, I respond, pathetically. I did.