(no subject)
I wish I could express how I feel without worrying it might hamper someone.

(no subject)
I just wish I could help. I wish I could make her feel again.

Word Vomit
Suffering suffragette. A kiloHelen barely begins to fill the void. 

Something bad. 

Failed flowers spring up from newspaper, clippings and shavings and dust. 

Something good?

It's sometimes hard, though now quite smooth, but tonight its all I can do. 

Something borrowed. 

Sometimes I prophesize, not well. In stumbling, blocky, eighteenth century text, I see myself standing before the old lover's dream, and screaming. In ancient, well-worn cloths, I see myself in a church. In the end, I see myself in the ground. 

Something new.

Strange enough to not notice red arching across your face, stranger still to never realize how right the Galaxy's Hitchhikers have been, towels are good. 

Something blue. 

I want. I want her and of her. It eats at me, this unprophesized future. A wonder! This single wavelength that it should wrench my soul so. I cannot stand to look, lest I collapse the waveform and in so doing collapse my own self. Gods, I am afraid. 

It hurts. 

But only for a moment. 

And as the Taoist Farmer said, "Maybe".


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