i'm home and i know i will have a book to write. today my father asked me in all seriousness (thank the lord for anti-psychotic, anti-seizure medicine) if i would write "the book" and he thinks it's his story i will write, as charity/equity, for him and for hollywood, for the men of the family. i said yes, of course, i will write the book. but the thing is the book will not be his. it will be mine, through my filters, my lack of them. i'm done with the darkness handling me. it's time for the white hot light to burn through and love everything to the ground.
it just started raining hard, i can hear through the window. a godsend for sleeping, and i must catch up to the people who are already snoozing. but the thing is i have a feeling i can't shake. it's deep, it's good, and it's very very scary. it affects my digestion. i want to talk about it all the time, but i think i have to just wait and sit with it. so i am going to go to sleep beside it. under a thick and comforting blanket.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
re-up the let-go
constantly. the cat jumps up on the thing and you lift the cat down from the thing; the cat's then back. and so, i thought i could save my father, by calling the museum of broken peoples, but they don't do pick ups, and you can't force someone to donate.
other thoughts abound: the goodness of the girls, good job, how many paw prints everywhere. sand on the palms, finding your way walking on hands.vcccssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD
that was the cat, back up on the thing.
what is the plainest way to say it:
i have to let go of my dad's life. if he's losing it, it's his, it's all of ours, to lose.
and then any newnesses:
let go of wanting specifics. guiding principles seem OK but can't hold onto anyone's life, actually, but my own.
how am i still seventeen walking across the grass
the table's round as the moon.
today find the music
other thoughts abound: the goodness of the girls, good job, how many paw prints everywhere. sand on the palms, finding your way walking on hands.vcccssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD
that was the cat, back up on the thing.
what is the plainest way to say it:
i have to let go of my dad's life. if he's losing it, it's his, it's all of ours, to lose.
and then any newnesses:
let go of wanting specifics. guiding principles seem OK but can't hold onto anyone's life, actually, but my own.
how am i still seventeen walking across the grass
the table's round as the moon.
today find the music
Saturday, May 12, 2012
no letting go
you lose your bones, you feel no pain, you find them again, the feeling returns. today i couldn't walk fast enough to get through the social streets. i wanted to walk in emptiness, no reflection in passing glass, no need to scowl or look away. my clothes felt oppressive, holding me in the worst way. i should know what this means, instead i've downloaded an application. can't be trusted today and should sleep.
no letting go, is making me tired. just should let the current take me, but am of course frightened by the loss of control. the illusion that there's any control anyway. there isn't. just all the mistakes collected and collated, stapled and handed in. the successes sweet and transparent, fleeting.
the deadening feeling closing in, the doing of the dishes. what what what what what
music is waiting, always waiting, words gather. you lose your bones, you feel no pain. til it rises again and the feeling returns.
a little worried my cat jumps out the window.
wool-gather, fluff, worry.
no letting go, is making me tired. just should let the current take me, but am of course frightened by the loss of control. the illusion that there's any control anyway. there isn't. just all the mistakes collected and collated, stapled and handed in. the successes sweet and transparent, fleeting.
the deadening feeling closing in, the doing of the dishes. what what what what what
music is waiting, always waiting, words gather. you lose your bones, you feel no pain. til it rises again and the feeling returns.
a little worried my cat jumps out the window.
wool-gather, fluff, worry.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
liminal preliminary
she loves wildness, and wildness fills me. paperweight lifted and the papers scatter. and it is perfect. you know what else. how impossible it was to taste with a sour taste. and how the sweetness can replace, replace. salt and sugar is just for shorthand. just time passing. i do not write even one letter, because that letter would need an envelope to hold all of time that has passed. which is a brimming, bucketful, galloping, gobbling, eyeful, spill, mouthful. of red fruit soaked in white milk in a bowl dipped with a spoon to be gentle on the tongue. i am protecting this place i've found. standing at the center remembering it. the particular spelling of it. the directions clear, how to, so much.
face, fair copy, feature, fiction, file, first approach, fleece, flimsy, flour, foam, form, free admission, free pass, free rider, free ticket, glass, glaze, graph, grass, guest pass, hand, holograph, homily, ice paper, instrument, ivory, journal, lace, lath, leaf, letter, manila, matter, memoir, mere shadow, milk, newsprint, nonfiction, note, note of hand, onionskin, opus, outline, page, paper house, paragraph, parchment, pass, pearl, penscript, plank, play, poem, post, preliminary, screed, scrip, script, scrive, scroll, second draft, sepia, shadow, shake, shaving, sheathe, sheet, shingle, silver, skeleton, sketch, slat, slate, slip, snow, soup, special, speech, splinter, stone, streak, study, swan, thatch, the written word.
face, fair copy, feature, fiction, file, first approach, fleece, flimsy, flour, foam, form, free admission, free pass, free rider, free ticket, glass, glaze, graph, grass, guest pass, hand, holograph, homily, ice paper, instrument, ivory, journal, lace, lath, leaf, letter, manila, matter, memoir, mere shadow, milk, newsprint, nonfiction, note, note of hand, onionskin, opus, outline, page, paper house, paragraph, parchment, pass, pearl, penscript, plank, play, poem, post, preliminary, screed, scrip, script, scrive, scroll, second draft, sepia, shadow, shake, shaving, sheathe, sheet, shingle, silver, skeleton, sketch, slat, slate, slip, snow, soup, special, speech, splinter, stone, streak, study, swan, thatch, the written word.
Friday, April 6, 2012
now i am sure
chloe sevigny sat beside me to see clare open her eyes once more, to see her flush again. once glimpse in the post-game, a reminder, wearing red and certainly her yellow hair. now i'm in the game after the dream, i'm a friday night. just how strange it is to be empty of her, and yet be full. how on earth did i end up here? i keep finding myself living deeper inside my body, the path she set me on, set by example. every time i stretch, i reach for her. i'm getting taller.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
fucking i have left so many things behind
two things about lately, one i can't get enough blue. started with grecian blue, which is middle blue, a little bit ruddy, tiny bit yellow but mostly blue. then a blue like in sayulita, like jolie says mexican blue, and that's more sunstained and weathered. so now i'm even up for electric blue. so susceptible, i want all blue now. i want every blue now. i want only blue.
second thing about lately, i can't sleep always. i keep waking up at the too-early hours, and there is no more sleep. it's not painful, like insomnia exactly, it's more like just -ful. whatever-ful. there are so many things about lately, way more than two.
but both lead me here, which is awake and thinking about the last time i saw dave. i was wearing a blue blouse, and if i could remember who got it when i moved away i might ask for it back. it was the first kind of blue. and i'd attached a blood red velvet rose to it, because it was for a show. and the show was a special one anyway, not for it being the last place i saw dave alive, but for itself. it was cafe du nord, and i felt poised. and happy. both before playing and during. the three of us onstage--bianca, lily and me--we all coordinated wearing pieces of blue.
in the microscopic microcosm of my family one person means a lot, there's very little personage. some unkindly drifting took the older generations far apart, so as not to encourage the younger ones to have children, both sides of my family. and while everyone dies, those who are kin seem to die ahead of schedule and on purpose. dave was really tall, had a scathing scandalous hilarious sense of humor, and was the limit of my family in california.
that night at du nord, i saw dave came down the stairs into the redness of the dark club, i remember feeling possessed as soon as i saw him by this hungry comforted feeling of OH HE'S MY BLOOD THANK GOD HE'S HERE, i think especially because my dad was in chemo and barely hanging on, but i grabbed him by the elbow and my friend denise who was standing by me and said THIS IS MY UNCLE, DAVE. with significance only known to me, on the outside just seemed like just a plain introduction, like oh cool of your uncle to come to your show. but because of the significance of family in my family, to me, this had some sort of impact in my brain. like seeing a star dashing across the sky, a rare thing one could point to.
he had brought a petite woman with him, i guessed the kind of stranger to pass a cold night with, no one special. i wonder if she ever knew what happened to him or if she still thinks of him as a man who stopped calling.
i used to play just one kind of music, songs which i sung and played along to, usually alone but sometimes with others. then after dave died, that music went south. my stomach turned. from the event of his death, violent and sudden and self-made. and from doing the after math in the aftermath. i couldn't sing that way anymore.
for almost a whole year before he sorted his belongings and settled his affairs, making sure his life insurance policy counted in the case of suicide, asking manny from new york life in couched language if it would (it did he had had it long enough). he waited for his mother to pass first.
on the day he boarded his cat, even threw his razor and toothbrush into a black trash bag on the floor of his bathroom which was there to catch the last-day stuff. he brushed his teeth that day ?
he had mailed two letters, one to my dad, one to his friend from college. another he left in an envelope addressed to his ex-wife, next to the letter to the police which said: "as you can see, i shot myself. i have no next of kin." this he had left on the ledge, with his id propped up beside it. a final rent check.
he went into the backyard for the occasion. first he smashed his blackberry with a hammer. then the supine position.
of course two policemen went to see his brother my father neil in florida, what little family there was still was. then he called me. even with all the prepwork dave had done, there was more to do, and when my dad asked if i would and if i could, i said yes. brazenly and uncompromisingly, i said yes, which soothed and exhausted me. coroner's office and neptune society and a first for my family, an official memorial service.
but that night at du nord. from the stage, i could see dave sitting at a table to the side, right under a light. he was sitting forward, chin cupped in hand, looking directly at me, beaming. and here's why: he sent me the beatles '62-'66 and '67-'70 in 1993 with a boombox. i was eleven, forming in jersey. and at thirteen, an electric guitar and amp and four-track appeared. i mean come on, he was the guy. he knew i needed the tools. he must have been proud.
the poise i felt, maybe the most comfortable on stage ever. i spoke directly to dave before one song, and said "this is for neil, because he needs us". i know i beamed back. he left that night without saying goodbye. he texted later that he was sorry he left without saying goodbye.
and then after healing, how i became to inhabit my body wholly. and how that led me to dance, to love dancing as much as i am now beswept by blue, i just love to dance and be free. true blue just dance and be free. oh how i mean this.
there's pulse in my music now. but i have left things behind. i freely admit this.
it must be time to put it all together.
Dave.
second thing about lately, i can't sleep always. i keep waking up at the too-early hours, and there is no more sleep. it's not painful, like insomnia exactly, it's more like just -ful. whatever-ful. there are so many things about lately, way more than two.
but both lead me here, which is awake and thinking about the last time i saw dave. i was wearing a blue blouse, and if i could remember who got it when i moved away i might ask for it back. it was the first kind of blue. and i'd attached a blood red velvet rose to it, because it was for a show. and the show was a special one anyway, not for it being the last place i saw dave alive, but for itself. it was cafe du nord, and i felt poised. and happy. both before playing and during. the three of us onstage--bianca, lily and me--we all coordinated wearing pieces of blue.
in the microscopic microcosm of my family one person means a lot, there's very little personage. some unkindly drifting took the older generations far apart, so as not to encourage the younger ones to have children, both sides of my family. and while everyone dies, those who are kin seem to die ahead of schedule and on purpose. dave was really tall, had a scathing scandalous hilarious sense of humor, and was the limit of my family in california.
that night at du nord, i saw dave came down the stairs into the redness of the dark club, i remember feeling possessed as soon as i saw him by this hungry comforted feeling of OH HE'S MY BLOOD THANK GOD HE'S HERE, i think especially because my dad was in chemo and barely hanging on, but i grabbed him by the elbow and my friend denise who was standing by me and said THIS IS MY UNCLE, DAVE. with significance only known to me, on the outside just seemed like just a plain introduction, like oh cool of your uncle to come to your show. but because of the significance of family in my family, to me, this had some sort of impact in my brain. like seeing a star dashing across the sky, a rare thing one could point to.
he had brought a petite woman with him, i guessed the kind of stranger to pass a cold night with, no one special. i wonder if she ever knew what happened to him or if she still thinks of him as a man who stopped calling.
i used to play just one kind of music, songs which i sung and played along to, usually alone but sometimes with others. then after dave died, that music went south. my stomach turned. from the event of his death, violent and sudden and self-made. and from doing the after math in the aftermath. i couldn't sing that way anymore.
for almost a whole year before he sorted his belongings and settled his affairs, making sure his life insurance policy counted in the case of suicide, asking manny from new york life in couched language if it would (it did he had had it long enough). he waited for his mother to pass first.
on the day he boarded his cat, even threw his razor and toothbrush into a black trash bag on the floor of his bathroom which was there to catch the last-day stuff. he brushed his teeth that day ?
he had mailed two letters, one to my dad, one to his friend from college. another he left in an envelope addressed to his ex-wife, next to the letter to the police which said: "as you can see, i shot myself. i have no next of kin." this he had left on the ledge, with his id propped up beside it. a final rent check.
he went into the backyard for the occasion. first he smashed his blackberry with a hammer. then the supine position.
of course two policemen went to see his brother my father neil in florida, what little family there was still was. then he called me. even with all the prepwork dave had done, there was more to do, and when my dad asked if i would and if i could, i said yes. brazenly and uncompromisingly, i said yes, which soothed and exhausted me. coroner's office and neptune society and a first for my family, an official memorial service.
but that night at du nord. from the stage, i could see dave sitting at a table to the side, right under a light. he was sitting forward, chin cupped in hand, looking directly at me, beaming. and here's why: he sent me the beatles '62-'66 and '67-'70 in 1993 with a boombox. i was eleven, forming in jersey. and at thirteen, an electric guitar and amp and four-track appeared. i mean come on, he was the guy. he knew i needed the tools. he must have been proud.
the poise i felt, maybe the most comfortable on stage ever. i spoke directly to dave before one song, and said "this is for neil, because he needs us". i know i beamed back. he left that night without saying goodbye. he texted later that he was sorry he left without saying goodbye.
and then after healing, how i became to inhabit my body wholly. and how that led me to dance, to love dancing as much as i am now beswept by blue, i just love to dance and be free. true blue just dance and be free. oh how i mean this.
there's pulse in my music now. but i have left things behind. i freely admit this.
it must be time to put it all together.
Dave.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
he doesn't speak crypto and can't find this place, but i can and i can
there is some line drawn from thing to thing. like a mnemonic device, in which you picture the next thing literally hanging onto the foot of the last until you've a whole chain linked up, from elephant to telephone to bucket. the boots i tend to wear on days that turn out rainy, they fill with water from the sole, making cold buckets out of each my feet. and hanging on the crook of that, how we sold the van. but how we used to crawl into the backseat together whenever there was something to parse out, how the back seat of the van used to be a confessional, anything-goes space and i would sometimes hold his head in my lap while the pain came and went. i wonder if we hadn't gotten rid of the van if our love would have survived this year. because we could have known what was around us. the next is something delicious i've forgotten now. and finally, just whether it's too rainy to be empty or not, the boathouse, would it have seats available.
i've woken up and thought about what day it is and what that means. saturday, gentle enough. i made my bed, closed the window, climbed out. now i've got a full cup, but i am listening to a sad song, one which is very true. i've had doubts this morning a few, about this perceived cooling, that scheduled, my best friend who has gone south to haiti without a return ticket. sometimes a cry is like throwing up, here it comes and just out and you feel better. maybe that's what it is. i'll switch over to the light, to the smile on your face. warm sweet coffee does feel good.
i've woken up and thought about what day it is and what that means. saturday, gentle enough. i made my bed, closed the window, climbed out. now i've got a full cup, but i am listening to a sad song, one which is very true. i've had doubts this morning a few, about this perceived cooling, that scheduled, my best friend who has gone south to haiti without a return ticket. sometimes a cry is like throwing up, here it comes and just out and you feel better. maybe that's what it is. i'll switch over to the light, to the smile on your face. warm sweet coffee does feel good.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
firthy
dreams have been full of colin firth kissing me. last night i also visited cambodia mudslides with fiona and dylan and daniel, green green heavy green humidity and plenty of family. before that someone may have grabbed my arm.
bed is more refined now, closer to the dream. buttery white soft cleanliness and cotton, an obsession. i like waking up these days, i like drifting towards sleep too, though not swathed in nearly enough hours or firth. he certainly was a dreamboat, coming down after spotting me from the high window, to keep me company in the heated water. wherever we were must have been california.
i looked up colin firth oh wow on youtube and it yielded quite a lot of fan vids, but they made me feel lonely, like bridget jones, only she got some firth.
bed is more refined now, closer to the dream. buttery white soft cleanliness and cotton, an obsession. i like waking up these days, i like drifting towards sleep too, though not swathed in nearly enough hours or firth. he certainly was a dreamboat, coming down after spotting me from the high window, to keep me company in the heated water. wherever we were must have been california.
i looked up colin firth oh wow on youtube and it yielded quite a lot of fan vids, but they made me feel lonely, like bridget jones, only she got some firth.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Sunday, February 26, 2012
that wonderful that curious
the gift that keeps on giving. what is that, but a blown-out voice, nightflowers taken by a flash, captured all in harshness and glory. the smile on your face does something to me, it really moves me, the smile on your face, the smile on your face really turns me on. sometimes i hear your new voice in my head, and it makes me taste good things, like minerals of the sea, sinew, sweet meat. and when you look at me darling can't you see, when you smile, yes when you smile. i can't make it out, what she's singing, or when we get to see what next comes, but i love the glamour of unknowing, i think of the desert. got me going like a new favorite. and of the old pain, whether to greet it with graciousness, tallness, a smile, or rip scissor and tear. luckily i didn't have to choose, just see the choice there.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
b e s i t o v e r s u s b e s o t e
waiting here, as if on a shelf but with knees crossed. the things we thought that mattered don't much matter. hips are are high, heels are low, hands press. and flying in the face of love, are successes. holding us like binding, like seams. woven in the fresh, braided and plated in love, sottered and besotted, our successes. i became learned in the spaces between
i got a taste for fruit which i can't shake the sand keeps coming out of the crevices everything i carry feels heavy when compared with the lightness of last week vision is blurred for now and my words switch hey where am i when i was recently somewhere so sweet
i got a taste for fruit which i can't shake the sand keeps coming out of the crevices everything i carry feels heavy when compared with the lightness of last week vision is blurred for now and my words switch hey where am i when i was recently somewhere so sweet
Thursday, February 16, 2012
puro vida
saw whales whale arm whale air tail body
ate cake pink icing heavy at the bottom liquor / liquid
saw graves painted graves plasticine flowers iridescent cement crosses happy foliage from years of fertilization pert floppy helicopter leaves magenta leaves yellow undying leaves leaves / left
tasted salt playa de los muertos yes she was there cove either side shielded safe to rise safe to float buoyed by dogs
saw sunset pink milk spilled alllllll over the sky sun tomorrow
ate sandia sweet and sandy and happy and sweet watery and becoming unthirsty
tasted what sadness fell in pails pressure of density from salt
ate cake pink icing heavy at the bottom liquor / liquid
saw graves painted graves plasticine flowers iridescent cement crosses happy foliage from years of fertilization pert floppy helicopter leaves magenta leaves yellow undying leaves leaves / left
tasted salt playa de los muertos yes she was there cove either side shielded safe to rise safe to float buoyed by dogs
saw sunset pink milk spilled alllllll over the sky sun tomorrow
ate sandia sweet and sandy and happy and sweet watery and becoming unthirsty
tasted what sadness fell in pails pressure of density from salt
Sunday, February 5, 2012
LILLILACAC
AND ! THEN THE LILACS SHALL ARRIVE, COME WARMER WEATHER. THE LILACS, KEPT IN BUCKETS, AND CARRIED OFF BY THE ARMFUL, DAMPENING THE SLEEVES, HEAVING WITH PROMISE OF SPRING
THEY SELL OUT FAST GOOD THINGS NEVER LAST
AND THE SMELL, TENTH GRADE BATH AND BODY WORKS
WHEN WE WANTED MAKE OUT PARTIES AND DREW THE LINES ACROSS THE HALL MOUTH TO MOUTH HIM WITH YOU AND HIM WITH YOU AND HIM WITH YOU
AND THEN SAYING THIS COLOR IS YOUR FLOWER, MY FLOWER IS THIS COLOR, YOURS ARE PURPLE
LILACS
TAKE TIME
THEY SELL OUT FAST GOOD THINGS NEVER LAST
AND THE SMELL, TENTH GRADE BATH AND BODY WORKS
WHEN WE WANTED MAKE OUT PARTIES AND DREW THE LINES ACROSS THE HALL MOUTH TO MOUTH HIM WITH YOU AND HIM WITH YOU AND HIM WITH YOU
AND THEN SAYING THIS COLOR IS YOUR FLOWER, MY FLOWER IS THIS COLOR, YOURS ARE PURPLE
LILACS
TAKE TIME
Monday, January 16, 2012
animal magnetism
a hello from the other side. i was walking in the straight sunlight, it's a very cold day, senses insulated from all the layers. a shadow of someone walking past startles me, then i feel something on my leg, it's a black and white cat who had apparently run to catch up and bonk my leg. cats are so often dispassionate and take-it-or-leave-it, must be important! black and white like an old baby cat i had, corner missing from her ear. she just wanted to say hello, but i take to mean right place/right time. and clare.
this fresh off one of those good life moments, in an eatery alone on a busy holiday, sit at the bar and stir. no reading materials, must look must talk. the gentleman beside me is reading love in the time of cholera and asks me to watch his place while he goes to the loo. i tell him i'm going to read his whole book while he's gone, and this gives us an opening to have some stranger-talk upon his return.
what was best that he said was "i just got to the point in this book where i know why the person who gave it to me gave it to me"
"why did they give it to you?"
"there's this character florentino that loves a woman for 50 years and then her husband dies"
"the person who gave this to you is a married woman isn't she"
"well not married but--"
"her hand is taken"
"yeah"
"so the implication is you'll wait? how awesome is she? i'd be like 'i've got better things to do!', 'fucking florentino, huh!'"
then he says something about the establishment we're in being so civilized (he's from canada) and i feel uncouth, though i am right. i can't believe he got the meaning. how brazen of her to impart it. but i get it. hands be tied, still the heart moves. i get it. it was a very lovely edition of the book. it must be thick between them.
so then before that just oolong and oysters, so nice and high. toast to MLK.
this fresh off one of those good life moments, in an eatery alone on a busy holiday, sit at the bar and stir. no reading materials, must look must talk. the gentleman beside me is reading love in the time of cholera and asks me to watch his place while he goes to the loo. i tell him i'm going to read his whole book while he's gone, and this gives us an opening to have some stranger-talk upon his return.
what was best that he said was "i just got to the point in this book where i know why the person who gave it to me gave it to me"
"why did they give it to you?"
"there's this character florentino that loves a woman for 50 years and then her husband dies"
"the person who gave this to you is a married woman isn't she"
"well not married but--"
"her hand is taken"
"yeah"
"so the implication is you'll wait? how awesome is she? i'd be like 'i've got better things to do!', 'fucking florentino, huh!'"
then he says something about the establishment we're in being so civilized (he's from canada) and i feel uncouth, though i am right. i can't believe he got the meaning. how brazen of her to impart it. but i get it. hands be tied, still the heart moves. i get it. it was a very lovely edition of the book. it must be thick between them.
so then before that just oolong and oysters, so nice and high. toast to MLK.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
black water good
the last black waters in a dream i saw six years ago. canoeing down oil black mirrory waters, a river in new jersey. trees arching overward with boughs balletic over the river center, arching healthily and strongly. holding the space for the beloved to pass underward.
the seed of a song, this was, because the man in my dreams six years ago wasn't more than a harbinger, and the beloved was in me as was the song.
but it taught me the goodness of the signal.
the seed of a song, this was, because the man in my dreams six years ago wasn't more than a harbinger, and the beloved was in me as was the song.
but it taught me the goodness of the signal.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
the restaurant we love
became in my dream the other night a boathouse. i know when i see black water in my dreams how good it is. how much this signals love, good love, lover, good lover. there's something about the black water, pooled so full with dreams of love that it's absorbed all the colors of it. the kaleidoscopic imagination of love is in that water.
it's perfect almost a boathouse anyway, it has a wooden quality, with low light of oil and its limited supply on open water, sunken ceilings of secrets. and out back there was a big square boat waiting. and a smaller paddleboat for navigating the smaller ways. a broader river flowed directly out back and a narrower way crossed it.
it's time to find out what true true true true true love is all about. like a thick key clicking in the lock are the lyrics to my new favorite song. i can't think about the words too much or they'll stop speaking to me. but my love is real.
it's perfect almost a boathouse anyway, it has a wooden quality, with low light of oil and its limited supply on open water, sunken ceilings of secrets. and out back there was a big square boat waiting. and a smaller paddleboat for navigating the smaller ways. a broader river flowed directly out back and a narrower way crossed it.
it's time to find out what true true true true true love is all about. like a thick key clicking in the lock are the lyrics to my new favorite song. i can't think about the words too much or they'll stop speaking to me. but my love is real.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)