|the wisp of breath exiting the airlock. the long yawn of heaven.
||[Mar. 9th, 2004|03:33 pm]
|||||is it time for murder?||]|
|||||crown me king- rand corp.||]|
gosh i guess i've got all kinds of gordian knots for a brain, huh? by which i mean the strangling, boa contrictor sort of thoughts, wrapped around my brain stem in lieu of personality. thinking about it? i guess i'm not used to giving. by which i mean i'm not used to things being given. i'm the thing. i'm used to being needed. whatever; a sleepy girl basically curbs my wrath in three out of four (3/4) incidents.
it is clear to me that something awful is going to happen.
i'm a little bit loch ness today. look into me & see nothing, oh scientists.
what the hell is the matter with today? everything ectoplasmic slick & all that bussiness. i spend hours playing with the bones of the sternum; after a little while in class i go back & start rummaging through other bone collections. my how large this neanderthal femur is, etc. how many dead people have i touched? how long ago did they die? does it fucking matter to me, when everybody i meet is pretty much dead to begin with?