Oh SHIT.

I accidently clicked back on my browser. So there went my whole demmed entry.

Frig user error hard.

I'm finding pictures of Tyrone Power, for the man looks unconciousably like my Stephen Quinn. All that's needed is a widows peak and a couple of places the features need be harder.

Here he is as a young man... Sweet, dark. Not quite my Wolf, but yet not unlike, especially like in school. Stephen was in a frat. *rolls eyes* really.

This is the one that made me do the double take. It's wierd, having an image in your head, never quite seeing it in life, but -- almost! And then, THIS. Woosh.

I won't be able to find pictures for the other voice in my head, this morning. He's a very old friend -- voice character, sorta. Kind of like Stephen and Michael, he and his best friend Judy are almost two diferrent aspects of myself. Johnny -- that's his name, Johnny Morrison, which is almost too trite to live -- he's the one that can fly. Last night, he came in my dream long enough to whisper how, so me and my dream-friends could escape the Bad Guys. So I got to wake this morning with the taste of wind and cloud-cotton in my mouth. Oh yes.

I wrote a journal yesterday at work, but I don't feel like typing it now. Maybe when I get home this afternoon. I want to find something with Johnny in it to put here. I could maybe put instead that thing with Q and Mike... but they won't let me. They're too cute in it.

So maybe I'll just put up something that has nothing to do with any of this, but that I wrote sometime when 'The Lion in Winter' was on in the other room:

Diadem

She put on the crown, and stared at herself in the mirror. Diamonds changed her, they did. Diamonds, the

supposition of forever; girlie-girl's best friend. Feh-whatever.

So that left... um, She couldn't tell; but it wasn't the cliff, she seemed to have stepped of most of those, pushed by that irritating white puppy and the song in her heart; she let the red eagle tattoed on her purse tempt her with promises of flight; shut her eyes and leapt. s'awrite, s'awrite. At least... well, no no, not true.

She /had/ broken something, hadn't she?

Oh indeed she had.

Sighing, she looked out of her window over the Aquitane and smiled a little sadly. A tear threatened to escape her eyeball prison, but pride is a stern jailer, isn't it? The tear did not fall, just burned a little. Ah, and her heart broke, again and again, prematurely. There is nothing worse than premature heartbreak; it comes in and out like tides. Hell, hell, hell...

And it is always, always worth it; which she couldn't decide... weakness or strength?

Oh well. Rashness waits not for power. Was that not a lesson inherent to January?

January was not one of her beloveds. January, the youth in his bellcap, is far too self centered.

But so am I, she thinks, and takes off the diadem before she goes out, not wanting to seem pretentious.

<<agé chose>>

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