A constant flight to this summer or next year or two thousand twelve, as we speak. Mumbled words and chaotic phrases. I'd prefer darkroom chemicals and floorplans to an apartment in Manhattan. The sound of the drain gulping away scented bathwater and my fingers leaving wet prints on the already damp pages of a book makes me stop. Then, a ( Read more... )

My fingertips smell like orange peels and sometimes when I eat oranges, the peels smell so good that I want to eat them too. But they taste bitter once I bite into them and they leave a strange hollow taste in my mouth that I don't like at all. But you see, the thing is, I know they are going to be bitter. I know it, and I bite them anyway. I ( Read more... )

"Your entries are really random and stupid. Talk about something real!"

Go read someone else's fucking journal then. And stop being immature.

This is what our media is wasting.

I've cried every time I've watched it.

Mr. Dorson is an incredible man ( Read more... )

where the swiss alps hit suburbia;

and sometimes things just aren't
as they should be.

Seventeen is just the filler age between sixteen and eighteen, and I don't really feel any older.

Getting gifts makes me feel guilty sometimes. I am ecstatic about them though.

Goodnight.

I can feel it resting in my bones; the knowledge, pure and bitter and slithering into my cells with sharp corners and suction cup sides. An infection of truth or some substitute reality of it because we’re too young to remember what real feels like. Plastic and radio waves tangled in my hair, like ten twenty thirty years ago minus you and I. It’ ( Read more... )

I caught the clock at 11:11 both times it occured today.

And I made the same wish each time. It's the same wish I've been making for a while now.

written words do
not speak with intensity;
wanting to be blurred
lines, but
i am running
out
of
time.