"Diamonds on the soles of her shoes..."
Lovely.
I love.

The letter I have been waiting for arrived.
My father is fabulous. Eating salty oranges in the back of the auditorium. Thank you.
Thank you to truly kind and gentle individuals. I love you all.
Through the wet salt, happiness arrived in a twig.
The "thinking" area of my head or brain feels achingly tingly.
Kudos to the amazing people I was in the presence of today.
and my mother's curiousity lead to the arrival of the twig.
"Son, be a dentist..."
Little Shop Of Horrors paints my soul a creepy orange color.

At 5:14 AM joyous news entered my sleepy ears.
It is 10:30AM and I am not in AP Lang./Comp.
At 8:30 I was not in French Four.
At 2:00pm I will not be in AP Psych.
I enjoy Psychology though, AP Lang./Comp. too.
The world looks lovely, glazed with powerded sugar.
A sugar sprinkled schema.
Lovely. Rufus Wainwright, Nick Drake and Jack Johnson are spurn from my bedroom.
Not spurn really, just dancing along the walls and into my soul.
The American society's concept of "Valentines Day" is absurdly screwed up.
Why can't everyday be "Valentines Day?" Why can we not love everyone equally each day? We have to have a specific day remind us to tell others that we love them and that they are fabulous? Shouldn't "Valentines Day" be about friendship and celebrating those good souls around you, rather than just focusing on the romantic gush that only a few have truly?
I feel rather confused as I examine the true purpose of this bizarre holdiay we have birthed.
Reading Chekhov brings brilliance into my soul and lights the darkened silk screen.

"If you listen close enough to your pillow you can hear it's heartbeat..."
-Patrie-

Sadness drains my soul to a raisin.
Shrinking at the back of the cupboard.
Crushed at the bottom of a third-graders back-pack.
Sandwhiched between the grids in a construction workers boot.
The brown eyes talked. Happiness bloomed in my soul. A flower in the spring, the dark individual has not yet met my eyes nor have I met his.
Arthur Miller died.
I feel fortunate to have been able to be in his presence before he slipped from this world. A distant presence, yet a presence on a night that will beat in my soul until I slip from this world.
A crumpled piece of newspaper stained from years of reading, smudged from critisism Arthur Miller walked up to the stage and stood. A crumpled piece of paper that personified one of the greatest American playwrites. My sinuses ached, pain siezed my nostrils and sinuses as tears bled into my eyes blurring the pupils that were fixated on the glorious, crumpled, newspaper personification of a man. He has been carried away by warm winds, warm winds sweeping through carrying him away to peace.
Thank you. Thank you Arthur Miller.
The poetry reading at ECRAC was amazing. Such brave individuals able to express their minds in a receptive emotional atmosphere. It was beautiful.
Fragments are fabulous. I feel rather guilty using them so frequently. They are thrilling, in the world of syntax, rather a tool of taboo. Using a fragment is like taking acid. Not that I have any experience in taking acid or any other sort of illegal activity. That is why using fragments are so dangerous, it's the only real "blood and oil" sort of piece I can produce or take part in.
I could take acid. If I wanted to harden my onion, a "blood and oil" sort of activity. If I did ever decide to intoxicate myself I would go to a museum and look at impressionist art. That was one of my favorite parts in "White Oleander" by: Janet Fitch. Such talent, such beauty, an amazing piece of literature.
"Seventeen" was a great piece. I could see the onion core that was covered by the layers of maturity.
"down my country road, no rain, no rain, is gonna fall at all...and I hold..."