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Don't leave me.I need to be alone... that's why I hate it when you're not there, because you said you'd never leave me... and, despite myself, I was glad.Don't leave me.


This Day.The sad and soon forgotten tale started at the stench of mouths at dawn, the odour of armpits awaking. It carried itself through the short and awfully light hallway strung tightly across the walls. The birds that sung had every right to do so on this glorious day of light and warm puppies and all the sweetened sugary crap of worlds Dickensian and entirely unreal... but they shouldn't have. Let them rue that day and be shot and stuffed in some scary guy's attic for singing their obnoxious tunes: they were not attracting females, they were attracting bullets. Lots of them.This Day.
Because on this day, he did not sing along, he did not hum


The Art of Writing.Wine is bitter with a sour aftertaste, aging cheese begins to harden and reek and if art does indeed count as the wine and cheese of life then life would be bitter with an all too often sour aftertaste, which it is, we would age as cheese and become harder and harder through trials of time and gain the odor of wherever we had been, which we do. Let me define a new type of art, let me pour you soft and smooth chocolate mousse to ease the common woes of life and eliminate that which is as common in life as bitterness and hardened souls with a glass of whatever juice you might prefer, whatever lemonade you might be thirsty over, whatever brand oThe Art of Writing.


Love: Fire.Sweat taunts him as heat lingers and swarms hungrily around him. The heartbeat of an ant sounds angrily from beneath and its army joins in, distorting his entire vision and plaguing his eardrums with the vibrations of the hearts of warriors. He sees the room through a fogged glass; rubs his eyes several times to make sure that what he sees is truth even though he knows it most likely wont be. He can feel her moving on the bed, enjoys her feet alongside his as they dig into the mattress.Love: Fire.
She cools him off rhythmically and soothes his pleas to stop the ants from marching across his body and taking refuge in his goose bumps, t


Love: water.He dances in the rain, screaming loudly and incoherently. She loves him.Love: water.
They went into conclave in the bedroom, discussed pros and cons underneath the sheets. White smoke did not come until the final heated kiss, the steam of which forced itself up the chimney: they had decided. Decided to love each other, decided to kiss again.
And now he dances, struggles caught in the tendrils of fresh and pure love while she laughs at him in the doorway and reminds him the world might not find his boxers as appealing as she does. But she does, and that matters.
The water from the sky soaks him and yet it's not cold, it's


Oddly Bent OaksThe scent of oddly bent oaks.Oddly Bent Oaks
That's the first thing thought that hits me as I wake up... a line, a senseless and weird line, spawned by the thought of bent lines. Most of the things I come up with are like this because thinking long and hard is fruitless.
It takes the thought of spring and somehow the scent of the imaginary poison apple along with the thought of bent lines to spawn the image of an oak that has tied itself into a knot. And why it's leaves are pink is an absolute mystery.
Do I write it down? Do I scribble these meaningless words into a notebook?
I read over them again. Again with t
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Irish Dragonfly
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To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.
William Blake
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