Alone ( Read more... )

Devoted to my current emptiness and lack of graceful mind

A Cemetary's Draweras the ivory key whimpers from solidity ( Read more... )

I wake cold and spinning from an evening devoted to all the scheduled jealousies and accusations I systematically pursue ( Read more... )

As I was telling someone, my day-to-day life has a general cry of emptiness to it ( Read more... )

Well.

Seeing as how I haven't had my face this red for crying in a long time (especially since it was drawn out over the unfortunate course of two hours):

I really hate you sometimes, J.K. Rowling.

( Very well, shadow. Proceed. )

By the way.

I bow down to all of you who are hiding your Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince opinions behind giant "SPOILER" signs. I'm not even half-way through yet, so thank you much much muchly. I do NOT want to know anytime soon... about anything.

Phew.

I've mistakenly quarantined my writing, kept it molding in a polished anxiety bucket that sits in a depressed corner of my Italian villa draped with dust, and to bring it out to cleanse it equates facing my truths and my errors alike ( Read more... )

I think it's quite possible to be so unhappy inside that you realize, with great reassurance of thought, that if you dared let that misery out into the world it would overwhelm you to a point that would make an hour alone as intolerable as tar-thick air and a day in solitude oily death ( Read more... )

( The Humidity Until Winter Comes )