i do not feel like taking advice anymore
a spiritual manifestation, the damn doomed
three things have happened
trois.
one in particular would initiate curiosity for foreigners, i suppose.
at the age of twenty three i have recollected too many uncertain images from this prior year that have lead me into total alienation until mid spring - when i fly. both my sister (bee) & i live in a rather uniquely challenging location and i honestly growing rather bitter towards the locals here.
if only we could somehow lift our home and move it to a different location.
Aurore & Mae is picking up quite well.
My fingers are literally torn at the ends; some skin has completely ripped off at this point. But it seems to all be worth it.
my sister & i had the longest hair
& who wins
no heart flutters in late spring. i can’t hold what is inside my hand. i (sea) - a man, he looked an awful like you. with all those looks on his face.
some days i feel this. i’m outside, i’m alone, i’m at peace. wholesome, i feel my mind spinning - i feel dazed, utterly hopeless - but twisted by a string that leads to this (other place) that i could potentially remain captive and live in for quite some time.
i feel birds practicing traditions and complete isolation
there’s this person
he’s half empty
he’s mighty, flattering to the eye. a bishop, the night star. i’ve known him for some time. he’s awfully gifted with his hands; compassionately driven by his image which he’s run off of for years on end. his face is symmetrical and easy on the eyes and his lips taste like an extraordinary cloud for mine to rest upon.
i feel nothing. he’s beautiful.
so i stare at his face and call him pretty. i tuck his shirt in, and kiss him in areas that comfort me. i’ve crafted his face and stored it away.
items going up
butterflies are in the air. my sister & i saved the blue one (i was going to preserve it, but it turned out it was just swimming). my obsession with butterflies continues to grow.
;to fly
all of the real men are preoccupied with their image. all the beautiful women are hiding in their homes. i feel that like an evil twin, suckin skin.
there’s nothing like being free
about living a conventional life.
there’s nothing funny about wasting it.
specific situations and disastrous feelings clicks from small talks. people always ask me “am i boring you? are you listening?”
well, at least those i associate myself with do. and i feel it. disconnected. like my soul is just drifted off elsewhere as a summer tree, detached from my human form. foreign entirely. i look into this time spent doing these things as if it were some black hole of over exposure from communicating poorly. she said, he said. a dense rainfall of irrelevant matters.
