Hi Livejournal.

I am becoming greater versions of myself year by year as my general perceptions of reality shift.

But same though kinda.

To any writer: I only want to write for you.

I just realized that,

just now.

I am no man's muse.

What do I do next?

"Time and Again"
Rainer Maria Rilke

TIme and again, however well we know the landscape of love,
and the little church-yard with lamenting names,
and the frightfully silent ravine wherein all the others
end: time and again we go out two together,
under the old trees, lie down again and again
between the flowers, face to face with the sky.

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

I can't get anything done. I only want to read poetry. Is there a job that affords you the pleasure of sitting down and reading poetry all day?

Is poetry a pleasure or a necessity?

I want to go shopping

hindsight

I want to take care of myself. I want to feel pretty again.