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There is more to life than dipping your tongue into honey pot after honey pot, sampling flavor after flavor.

Or is there?

After a few days of fumbling with words (dropping them, letting them bruise like peaches) I think I've figured something out. When I don't know what to do with my arms -- when they want to wrap around the shoulders or the waist of another -- or my hands -- when they want to pass over skin and cloth -- but cannot, I lose myself and don't know what ( Read more... )

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I'm a mystery to myself.

Just when I think I've become, shall we say, simplified, something inside me mystifies me greatly.

I want to write more, but this keyboard isn't the best. The spacebar sticks.

It's driving me fucking crazy.

I'm musical and visual. I take just as much painstaking care with the images I use to express and represent myself as I do the sounds I use for the very same purpose ( Read more... )

I'm too old to waste time with insolent children a sixth of my age.

I am not unkind. I have pride; hard-won and steadfast.

I've been reading a lot more, lately.

I feel better about a lot of things.

Finding solace in myself.

Wasn't that the idea in the beginning?

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