Little ambient lonely. I want to fiercely disconnect. Savor the solitude. Get into my head more, get something done. Except the notknowing, it keeps me from experiencing, and I don't get the trajectory of lives right in my own head. Because of course I can't write about my own. Because of course the whole thing is stagnant.

I'm trying to figure out how important it is to work on Norah's story, because it relates a lot more I think to the timbre of where we are today, and it's more possibly important to what needs to be said, if someone like me could ever have the capacity to say what needs to be said.

And the nightmares of the windmills. Those violent fingers slicing torso in half, the black-eyed lidless children wailing for the unseen future. Is that really relevant? Am I fooling myself into thinking a selfish, spoiled brat like me can write anything except the stories of selfish, spoiled brats?

Either way, I need to finish "river island" and more on to the turbines. They're quite impressive to look at, those turbines.

Wicked Opiate and the True Femmes

Being living is OKAY. Day-to-day breaths are measured in small towns, in big cities, in extraordinary deserts, in clusters of the near-dead and dying. So she (Natalia I think I mean) will go off, shoulders stooped, carrying on bag for the things she owns and one bag for the things she's bought, looking down the tunnel of the street, the buildings blending together and the snow in the roads, the thick ice in shattered pieces on the sidewalk.

Come on, Dear Lord, please help me get by. I can either chose to face the hate, and overcome it and gloriously victoriously come out much stronger or I can wipe my brain, and I can hold apathy like a bitter cyanide capsule under my tongue (harmless now though; bitter but harmless - for now - ) and be maybe a little okay. Being living little is all OKAY.

Like Mr. Sufjan Stevens, I'M NOT FUCKING AROUND. I really do want to be well.

Characters come and characters do not go so please live on, little phosphorescence; I need you very much.

live on, live on

so in the worst of weather, do I dare to believe God steered me with great assurance to safety? Am I to believe that I've not died for a very particular reason? so what is folly, after all? I owe my Creator great thanks.

her story is finally coming along; struggling and screaming from the birth canal, swallowing air and bloating her stomach, turning blue, freezing softly, dead in the forest. there are worse fates: her's was an ugly one but there are always worse fates.