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Nineteen.
Are cheekbones a becoming thing. They don't seem to be in style these days- judging by the moonfaced throngs scurrying from one excess to the next.
I suppose they don't know that sugar is toxic. A slow death.
Too slow to kill prior to reproductive years. What a pity.
OOC: Believe It or Not: He actually looked in a mirror. -
Eighteen.
The sakura are in bloom. Scattered petals float in gutters as I walk past- as though the sky fleetingly rains a different color.
They are soft underfoot.
OOC: Post-Hiatus: I apologize for my recent unannounced absence. Over the weekend I was in DC for Sakura Matsuri (pictures soon to come on my main journal, which is now
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Seventeen.
...there were five outside my office door.
And I know they weren't from any of you. There must be something in the water. -
Sixteen.
I came across a comic anthology by an American artist. It struck me as both visually arresting and unusually adept at portraying the true underlying ignorance and apathy of contemporary society.
As a foil to the bleak backdrop, the protagonist is bold and uncompromising, asserting his ideals in the face of a populace that refuses to (or merely ( Read more... ) -
voice post.
Click.
There are some bumping and rummaging sounds, then the scraping of fingernails across wood. A loud exhalation is heard.
"Where."
A sound of collision, then a jarring thud and a burst of static.
There is the wet clicking sound of a tongue tapped against the roof of the mouth. The scraping resumes until fingernails collide against metal with a ( Read more... ) -
Ides.
I've been relatively absent of late. You've all grown rather- careless in your demeanor and labor.
I suppose you didn't think I'd see that writing in the bathroom stall.
There are implications of a causal relationship.
Ergo.
From this moment on, I am watching you all. Closely. -
Fourteen.
I need a haircut.
It grows far too quickly. I detest it this way.
It's not masochism if the tissue is already dead.
-
Thirteen.
Life cannot be captured in a photograph.
A product of the hindbrain; sentience only serves to make it falter. Shall I think about breathing?
It's all about one's frame of mind, says the collective. But what does the mind frame if not a photograph?
And so one slips from one unconsciousness to another, never understanding exactly what this brief ( Read more... ) -
Twelve.
(strikes private)
Elevators are interesting things.
Their purpose is simple enough- contrived to ferry passengers in a vertical direction from one level of a building to another. There is nothing complicated in it.
And yet there is an inherently insidious aspect to them. A tiny enclosed box, completely cut off from the outside, dangling in a dark ( Read more... ) -
Eleven.
The summer rains have come again.
The sort that charge the air, sending invisible currents of energy twisting and spiraling through flesh, making hair stand on end. The feeling invigorates me. I cannot explain it.
They are of a strange nature, these storms. Not only do I know when they are coming, but it seems that it only rains when I want it to.
( Read more... )