December 2009
72 posts
“Elizabeth: How did you know? How did you know I’d respond to you the way I...”
some ask praise of their fellows but i being otherwise made compose curves and yellows, angles or silences to a less erring end)
myself is sculptor of your bodys idiom: the musician of your wrists; the poet who is afraid only to mistranslate
a rhythm in your hair, (your fingertips the way you move) the
painter of your voice beyond these elements
remarkably nothing is.
e e cummings
“It’s Been A Long, Long Time” - Kitty...
“I hate this music. So dreamy, so chic, so sensual. So perfect for making love on...”
Ever since I was a little girl I’ve been strangely fascinated with cigarette smoking. I was in a trance watching my aunt flick her ashes so elegantly. In the smoke I saw beauty - something that was so temporary, as it dissolved by winding and stretching its long white limbs. The thick air veiled everything and everyone in it. I was safe.
