I think I’m open again to falling from grace.
Tomorrow, I need to wear myself out. Kick this sleeping with the dawn. Gotherize and go dancing among the wannabe morbid. Sunday bloody sunday.
Tomorrow the Frenchman and the Poet are expected to call. Another reason to cut off an ear. I feel I should have tokens to hand out, like the fearie tale princesses gave to thier knights. I think mine would have numbers though, a ticket machine set-up. “number 145. you are not unique”
I’ll pay you in chocolate
Tonight, on the other hand, was filled with illuminating laughter. I had a chance at convincing myself someone only saw things what they convinced themselves they saw. Fashioning stained glass into a superwaif. I was wrong. It’s like somewhere – there’s been waiting for such a long time. Thinking that everything was pointless, yes, but I’d forgotten that I was only in a sheet. I can’t imagine the first impression.
Dies with an arrow and fire like an old triptych saint