Author: foxtongue

I have swallowed pale stones.

 

the first time we made love, i: i wasn’t sober.
(and you told me you loved me over and over!)
how could i ever love another, when i miss you every day:

remember the time we made love in the roses?
(and you took my picture in all sorts of poses!)
how could i ever get over you, when i’d give my life for yours.

 

I want to go home.

scams lie bleeding

I’ve just had the experience of an utterly soul-rotting interview and now I’m going to go celebrate by going out for dessert with   and .

I like this trend

it went from going for cofee – which I was happy with – to going for sushi – which I am certainly – to going for dessert – which is like going for coffee but better

attached to people with skin

It could be cruel, this flaying alive of my nerves and skin. For someone so jealous, you’re certainly throwing my lot in with strange boys.

Last day was fraught and lovely. Time spent with hire-me papaers and   melted into having the Boy around and eating strawberry rhubarb crumble on the beach. It was a far better choice than the pie we had planned.

Bitter is more fitting.

Later we stopped by his place and made arrangements to meet with , as I had previously with . I left James and Sophie at Broadway and bussed to the Butcher Shop Floor to discover Dominique hadn’t yet arrived, though   was there.  Not exactly a venue, but I suppose with too much effort, potentialities could form into flesh. Poor folk are running it currently by comittee.

Walking down to Broadway from 26th was unexpected, but refreshing. The sidewalk stretching forward past us to the other side of the city. Blocks corrupt with consumerism. Dominique stopped in one shop and we kept wandering downward. Assuming that she had paused to mock advertisment culture, we were surprised when she came running back with a handful of violet flowers. “I bought these for you“

She shocked me. Electric snap of joy. First actual spark of happy so far.