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it's been some time, hasn't it, my dears?

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i should write as i read, sloth-like and indulgent, raking great swathes of phrase and allusion into my conciousness, contemplating how its presence affects my self, and letting it echo and seep, eye to hand, hand to mouth, mouth to face, face to paper. and yet i write for the reader, and the reader, in me, hates my mind, hates my face. it devalues ( Read more... )

oh, god. this can't be right.

barely an illusion of an apology, no real acceptance of culpability, you are inculpable, immutable in your correctness, aren't you? mea, culpa. toast, honey, olive spread, grapefruit juice, vitamins b and c. omega oils, castor, capsules rolling side-to-side on the tray you carry in the palm of your weaker hand, the stronger pulling back the bed ( Read more... )