archives [pt2]

[elydesia]

２０１１年２月９日 Freewrite, page 111
Mollusks dance in the light of tonight, making idiotic moves and unrealistic gambles, idling into the depths of ghost ceerwaters, seas.
Burning and tasting the tea, forgetting the high thanks to monsters singing. Away.

Forgive them for their poor pitches, the sad-sounding glide away from trouble. Sick. Tea. Colds. lemurs.

Outside an apartment durind midday. Top fully something will pass. Massive whales dangle in the wilderness. Pathes of grass pop up to where we can't see. Even the milds of hope siver down the road of bread and ages.

She is the queen. Everything she wishes, comes true, but only in the mind/kingdom of food. Tasteless.
She sings and wings truthes, feel she is. Making a disaster everywhere one looks. Maybe we'll cope with this sad silence. Only in maddening displeasure.

Quiet and peaceful. Lamenting like a tale gone wrong. Masterful ennnnnmnnnnnnnobody. Shell of a man. Thinking masterful. What an inkling to survive with this crevice is topnach suffers through this madness. Daily quiet singing. Jolly joy makes Folly bawl like a crying doll.

It is in this masterful thing, like jocks on us. Jokes. Slow ing down. Making the jolly joy.


２０１１年２月１５日 Freewrite, page 115
Skipping in this firefly light, behaving in a manner prone to the ladies. Like back when they used to have calling cards at balls and parties, and men would write their names down for each song.
How this was the only way couples could get good physical contact. Imagine the beauty in that pure picture, the essence. I guess since today's days have looser schedules, we can talk and hug practically anyone we want.
This conspiring, lush, cornucopia of beauty fruitstyleditionecropheliacoberattackokoptionsingopetto. In the story, weather goes awry.

Thenight was pale dark in comparison to the outer gardensinging. Helios, the creator, makes magic balls spark as a private show of love to his small twin flame.

What am I to become if not what I want to be? Not a writer, the world tells me. Why not? I am a writer who focuses not on the technicality of writing, but the image, sound, and flow of it. Why should writing be limited to hose with better knowledge? If you can understand how they talk, that is the least you need to know.
Why should writing or telling stories be a premium?


２０１１年２月２１日 Freewrite, page 121

Brittle butterflies across time, and ages. Such a small and weak creature. Delicate.

Just like so many other things, I guess. Making ideas matter, idealistically. Historical happenings. Joyriding in fantastic space. Journal entering a new dire era in space, muscles burning like the raging fire above delicate monsters shaped and sculpted out of blown glass metal objects. Ideally adequate for the channeling of lot qualities. Perhaps the impurities in the human's breath shot into the small, awful glass pieces. Making it a new year this month.

The years I've already lived, to this date, to tolerate the idealist values before us. Making impact like a dynamite disaster, forsluck between the barriers in a dinosaur. Postponing dialogue. But in time with everything else around that one object. Tell the truth, but not in whole body or dimension. For then we manage underground.

Being wound up again and again. Perhaps we'll take the image among the people to the gates. Our gates bless the people take value. Make trucks take you home. In large valleys. Perhaps so much larger than the population of people driving cars this second. This value, to date, is among a chosen number. This chosen number will manifest as something completely else. Take care and go on. Making mountains climb trails made even before them. Dying inside one's self. Take these dreams and make them work.


２０１１年３月２日 Freewrite, page 130

Like normal folly, we play the game among and around the throng.

I admire such greats, but yet I am still so lame. I put them to shame. I feel, sometimes like I have no driving charge. to the end, I just want everything to come to me. So easily, and somewhere at the back of my mind I think my problems would be solved with money. I know this is a mental way, but as always, my emotions are a wild dinosaur with ideas, paper plates, and over dozens and dozens of dreams and wishes.


２０１１年４月１４日 Freewrite, page 132

Blunt passageways collide in mongrol divorcees march on the tick-tocks of the massive grandfather clock.

Being left behind... this is how it feels. The such emptiness like falling from a tall tower into water, the very surface feeling thick and hard as our backs land on the solid waves of water, liquid stone.
What desires rip forth? What depression rings in the ears of my calling of thunderous monsters I hear the dinosaurs, thumping around ideas. Thumping so annoying and threatening. Obnoxious, and laying undertow of making hats concrete evidence clocking in tiny thoughts. Absolute and unforgiving. Digging into your mind with a "maybe" instead of a "hey, Dee". Bossy little robbins bassed in such a hassel. Touch embellishments sneeze in the breeze. Possibly but overbearing is release the teasing. Like the anaconda's bow and arrow-like bite.

Forgiving, because tonight we won't be visiting. Tonight we will be working, like ever in the mountaintops of ease. How about we give them something to put down their throats.
No one else seems to know or matter or care about the plentiful dares.
I'm being left behind. I'm not being included, I'm being rejected. I don't have a place anymore. What do I do? Maybe there's some inferiority complex mixed in the mess of odd, strange and overbearing dolls above the halls. We deck them with balls.