There rattles the horrible skeleton of a poor lover who hung himself.
06.06.03 - 8:56 a.m. I'm in a lovely mood, soley because my antiqued-looking lavender silk slip is clean, and I can frolic in it. The one which is a Victoria's secret extra small-- any bigger, and it'd be too bid for my puny chest, but it is just barely long enough to be decent. Purr. Like today's trousers, impractical for the reason that nothing oculd slip into pockets that damn tight. They fit like skin down to the knees, then flare, rendering breath a chancy and highly not-reccomended endeavor. I love them. Masochism = Beauty. No, not really, but I am allowed to have Days. Further, it was on June Sixth that Don Juan and Donna Julia submitted to their scandalous passion for one another (according to George Gordon Lord B., of course) and also, that the poor unrallied barricade fell dead. A long rabbit-howl for my poor revolutionaries! And then the blinking, prolterian huckler will sail away on spokes of speed to the museum, to sell trinkets to spindthrift toddlers and prepare for the new exhibit, opening tomorrow.
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