oh hell. Just read Fox's rendition of last nights events, and be amused.

Quinn and Henry are writing scary things, and now Q is going to go discuss an assasintaion contract with Vera. And I...

Want to sleep. Want to Dream. Want to write more, and scathe quickly through sheets of high flung, far-reaching, dove-eyed prose. I want to eat smoke and kill my cat, who howls like a dying thing, when her problem is only that she can't get laid.

Oh well.

What diabolical blossoms send sweet scents from my bed. Not satisfying ones, but enticing enough. Come to us and dream things that will make your real life flatter and thinner than you can possibly imagine. Come deepen in the time with us. Come and do not move, and live with us, dead.

Ohh, but i do not want to die. I want to sit with my Sophia here in the dark room and make the flowers grow. But there's an open grave with my name on it, which is good cause I lost my shovel.

I can smell the spring folding into summer again through the walls of my house.

You know, I really fucking love you.

<<agé chose>>

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