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[25 Apr 2008|11:01am] |
Says here, on my virtual internetz worldz, that U2 have dumped a whole album's work, meaning the follow up to How to dismantle an atomic bomb will be ages away now. Boo!
All that exercise has given me some abs aches. Not bad, considering how much I did. No drinking, and a quiet evening. A buffet that didn't turn up. A load of wasted food. Sometimes the comfortably off disgust me. They didn't turn up, and didn't bother to phone to tell us they wouldn't be. Humanity makes me sick. And it has been more obnoxious than ever this week.
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[25 Apr 2008|09:03pm] |
Though I try, consistently, to deny it, a dark hand grabs at my heartstrings ever so often and threatens to pull the ripcord, unravel my violin strings, snap my cables, and leave me dangling by a thread. Every single day I am teetering on the edge of a coin, between dulled grey and shining sunshine bursts. Such a comparison is flawed, as if anything the grey days heal my heart more than the sunny ones do. However, the negative is true inside the cavernous reaches of my soul.
Each and every single day, to me, is a personal struggle. With a literal myriad of thoughts. Those thoughts contain bubbles, and those bubbles contain hubs, branches, roots, decaying, growing, growing and decaying. I am uneasy with this riptide, and I am floating a little further each time towards stormy waves, slowly, but surely, into whirlpools, that threaten with deepening menace to toss my little boat over and crash my helpless form underneath cobalt waves. As the sky grows hazy and my lungs fill more and more with floods of water, I try to cough godly words, and they're caught in my throat. I'll feel like i'm sinking, but I dread being rescued, I dread it because this sinking would be so sweet.
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[25 Apr 2008|09:21pm] |
Good letter.
"Dear Rebecca.
Violins play in my head when you tilt your face, doves fly through my heart when you return my stare. My heart is flooded with desire when you look my way, and my dams burst through in so many ways"
Bad Letter
"Dear Rebecca.
I fear for your beautiful eyes. Why do I fear? Because, if, for any reason, either by madness or fever, you were to relent to me and become my beloved, as I did doth unharness and drop my jeans, you would spy in my groin, not a penis, but a penis inside a sock puppet. With Kermit the frog's face on it. I would make it talk, and you would stare, in stunted amazement, before making your excuses, and leaving. I would sit at the end, audibly wondering aloud to Kermit what went wrong. Before I punched his green head off."
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