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Posted: Tue Apr 13, 2010 7:34 pm
i'm sick now and i woke up to discover i sounded like an 80 year old lifetime chain-smoker. i've been away for such a long time and there wasn't even a mercury retrograde. i dreamt i was by the ocean and it was an arctic place and everything was twilight blue and there were rocks instead of sand on this beach and a grand piano half-submerged in the water and then the tide went out so i was going to go play it but then there were mountain lions who walked around like those creature from where the wild things are and so i couldn't go play the piano i had to go home because it was something:58 which made me think of spark so i had to sneak away from the mountain lions by weaving in and out of the glaciers that were on the beach and not in the ocean the end. i think i moved to pluto. so now i'm re-learning myself. like pluto square moon, that need to destroy the world every night and make a new one every morning. and learning about all the different feeling natures and that not everyone feels that constant volcano. so now i'm just returning and gathering all the breadcrumbs i dropped along the way. i can't make any promises about submitting but there is a chance and so i think that is something in itself. my hands are mine again.
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Posted: Thu Apr 29, 2010 8:43 am
TAK.
I have a story for you.
Once upon a time there was a girl named Remy.
She was amazing and everyone loved her.
The best part about the story? It's totally true.
The end.
smile
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Posted: Sun Jun 06, 2010 11:50 pm
biggrin It is a good thing I didn't make any promises, or all those that love me would royally hate me right now. my hands are mine again, this is true... but alas they are for scribbling and writing incoherent rambles that I do not even understand...
I miss this place deeply. I miss myself.
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Posted: Mon Jun 07, 2010 1:27 pm
Keep scribbling. Sometimes I've found you've gotta work through the jumbled mess one scribble at a time before you can find yourself again. Specially if you get buried under a huge pile of jumbled mess. It happens to all of us. This is why we write, and this is why we sometimes write scribbled jumbled messes. It will come together again.
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