let's neglect all feelings and any that have passed through us in the past three years and call it a day, when really its been over a thousand. Our time has been like Anne Boleyn's reign, a thousand days, a baby girl, a lot of fights, much mistrust, lots of distance, many wars and ends with one of us losing our heads and the other marrying someone else 3 days later.

oh for god's sake, for once I want to keep my head and get married.

maybe one day I'll let you in on the big secret

until then feel at peace in the poppy fields of my dreams

under the spell of this lush-full opiate you are

blinded by everything that is your eyelids hiding you from the truth

(YOU ARE CONSTANTLY INTERRUPTING EVERYTHING ARTISTIC THAT COMES OUT OF ME AND I'M HAVING A CONNIPTION.)

oh and you above and you below are NOT the same person. One of whom drives my migraines the other that drives all my best dreams.

there's this store across the street from the universite de philo in paris, in the 6iem, around the corner from saint germaine, where they sell the most incredible medical skeleton models- perfect models, perfect proportions of our skeletal system.

I've always dreamed and fantasized about buying a skull

I've always been a secret goth too.

I have been home for one month, one long arduous death defying month

when I close my eyes i grasp for memories of the street corner on rue des ecoles, my last visit to the left bank 

my sense of smell has been weakened by the everlasting rain, the tumult of my senses being defeated by weather and my eyes being blinded by the overcast sky

i have chosen to live so briefly in this place yet i am overcome by emotion every time i think of returning to a city that bowed down and kissed both my cheeks soundly

i am haunted by cafes, of kiwi fraisiers, of vanilla bourbon millefeuilles, of immaculate dressing and art that moves me to a higher sense.

i've forgotten how to live and yet have continued the way i did before, like a year never happened.

WOE.

i need sensibility back.

i’d have no concept of love if it wasnt for books, nothing to compare it to, no emotion to understand, and no name to call the feeling.

I’ve spent year cultivating the everlasting flavour of love, and this is something which billions of novels have been written about- this is the subject which has always capitvated us.

However, Lust always precedes love and without that translucent, decadent and buttery image and general assault we usually make of love, lies the true feeling of love. That is, when we are talking about the sort of love that brings people of non blood relations together. we are not to judge upon circumstances however, especially when remembering the Goalers of Annapolis Valley in Nova Scotia. Their love had precedent, the sort of oddly blood substance kind that creates novels which shock literary genre out of water and win these individuals prizes of all sorts. 

but yes, here we are again, talking about love as a feeling and not just as a word.  But as we say in greek- EROTA, meaning I am in love. and yes, it is certainly me in a first person sens

One of my talent's is applying eyeliner without a mirror

the other one is french braiding my own hair ( while being a hopeless waste at doing anyone else's)

I am also ambidextrous. 

I am like a mage, as striking as could be and the rain turns me to rust as the time flees

the end, mundanely and obviously enough is drawing near. Here I am flying back again to a time that spreads as vast as the land, without charming villages nor 3 am pastries.

I feel hectic and chaotic and like I cant catch my breath- I feel the same way without YOU sometimes when I remember what its like to be around. I am so conscious you are never in my dreams

All I really need is that tiny bit of encouragement and I will banter on for days. Sometimes I am quiet like a kitten, just a mew mew here and there.