I make philosophies of self-absorbance, but the knife told me to cut it away and throw it in the fire.
I am a part of the waves, stealing the colour of the sky to disguise as my own, to claim myself blending in.
I imitate the cemetary night, of the visitors quietly wishing under the black threads to open out and dig the graves of their longing.
I found and old clockwork piece, with it's jagged ends to the day which my bones had pushed my heart out.
I crept away from the fingernails reaching for the skin, emitting a strange conspiracy feeling to not to mend myself.
I will create phrases without extemporary details, without designated thrills, without conceptual rushes.
I won't take another wrong step again; my feet will make a diversion with my gaze on the ground to not to fall down.

So you passed by with my eyes stealing a gaze without the money to pay the departure ticket. Am I that happy with the travelling with the short visit? My plane has begun to make alternate bendings around the distance, and so far, my shape hasn't reach yours.

After I opened the window, I am a room with messy beds and opened empty notebooks. Of journals and letters returned to sender at any purpose. Of a massacre for the neutralization; a riot of personal. In jars with angry candies for desperate measures. I walk through the dirt of materialism with a sense of uncontrolled neutral gaze. The sense of the need to be lost is in a conflict, and it makes my foul mouth frozen. So let the limbs be soft and not enhancing the robotics of me. It's time for me to break out these wires and metal to feel how it was again. The sense of the tingle breathing through my blood, not the oil for me to move.

I still won't make first steps, I still won't spend the time yet. The discovery needs some time to be polished, and I fall as my own prey. You won't be harmed yet. I won't start writing letters with "Dear [yourname]" for now, until I have the sense of realisation.

Burning chemical batteries for us, for the night time, was at a 99.8% exotic restaurant serving food in the names of the Thai language (Fak or Phark, one of it means fish, but my sister was more interested in the pronunciation), but our tongues didn't have to roll in such an alien way, thank god for translations! Despite having lots of nature sacrifice for the furniture, the less amount of the vagrant smell satisfies me, unlike other cheapskate stalls/restaurants/garbage bin with waiters who just give the unamused eyes as a sign of welcome that always don't have and those who came are just for reputation and recognition, and society's contagious sins. We settled in our seats, armed with antique forks and spoons, gold and thin, and green flat porcelains to place our fuel.

The food was good. But I am beginning to take less that what is enough, and that bothers me so, for I am still 99 lbs, and still 5"3, but please, oh please; I don't really bother on making myself suffer for such beauty that doesn't signify grateful.

[My brother decided to keep his body in the house. It's been 7 years, since father passed away. I was dissapointed, I am still now. My mother depends on the night of 7th January, or any night that has got to do with the birth of me, as a great step for my brother to be brave enough to be in the sea, without worrying about any pressure or waves. For among all, I am the easiest for him to communicate with, for I have such strong calm against annoyance, and I am innocent. Of course there's no incest all around, do not inherit this thought, people. My mother was dissapointed as well, after he told her how he will not get ready for the dinner. You see, he now stands alone among 4 sisters and a single mother. He had wasted his bright mind for education, for he was a smart one since he got straight A1s for the final exam. Now he stays in his room without any questions from any of us. The hermit.]

My sisters, my mother, and my brother-in-law had an unhealthy conversation in such a sophisticated way my mother had to say it like this, "I don't think other girls, or female siblings, will proudly and bravely without any hesitation, have this kind of conversation in front of their mother." But she contributed laughter so not to worry. In front of our table was a small pond, with a statue of the Hindu God of Death (I think, or maybe he's something else), Ganeisha, sat still in front of a calming flat waterfall. We have silhouettes of flowers on the ceilings. I'd like to get one of those lamps.

My sister took a picture of me looking like a rich sophisticated chinese lady waiting for her lover at a park at night. I really love my new hair (I will get the picture from her soon, don't worry).

A few minutes before the moon decides to rest on his cradle up high, I found two printed stills of my dead cat. You see, this is probably the only time in my life that I would be a proud friend of a white furry living, with eyes that stole the sky; innocently.

I am fifteen today.

I celebrated it with the regular school writings. I did not like to take extra measures towards this petty things, but hey, I should feel special(isn't that what they say? Probably the "Happy Birthday!" sets as reminders). I do feel special, though, as in materialistic-ally special. Of course, what are the days of birth without the greetings of my arrival, only right now it's fifteen years late and fifteen years more useful?
There is the procastination spirit in some of my friends, heh. But, yes, to what I got for today: + a pink "scene" belt from Dorothy Perkins (I've been wanting this, I think this is when my friend decided to get it because she was sick of all), + a photo frame, + a set of acrylic paint because they took the term artistic to the watercolour degree, and:

"What do you want for your birthday?"
Umm. A CD. Hah.
"That's expensive, dude. Something that's affordable!"
Umm. I want a new notebook. You know, for like a 2005 journal thing.
"Ok. I'll get you one."

+ 8 notebooks. She's being really sweet, really. Her reason was that she couldn't choose which one, she decided to get em all. I really love her, we had this connection that makes me feel tranquility at hold, and that feels nice.

I knew that this is the shifting, the invisible transportation to what seem a more improved self-conscious or the planted seeds have already "grown up", and this is where you will expect what everyone will expect from you, like from everyone else. They expect me to be in the lines of medicine or judgements, and I will be there to give aid or give (un)reasonable punishments. But really, after all of this high school madness (I don't like to associate it with emotional turmoil. That's so overrated, man), after all of this scientific and chemicals and body parts and theories, I am going to enrol myself in the lines of the cyber world, and have my fingers plucking strings or hitting drums in the end. Get a family and have children in a nice pastel coloured house, etc. etc. etc. end.

sultry late evenings over maladjusted archways
blankety spines travelled along the bridge
my sun, what have you done?
this doesn't belong in the upper mines
like whiten charcoals decorating your teeth
and scrap books of clouds of narcissism.


Neil Gaiman's words barely travels into my spine
but infections of paperlife, my guards are down
into his spell like creepers marching through
my veins.


My land doesn't call for winter,
but the clouds have a frailty wish
and miracles is in ther positive vibe
by calling the winter sky to
pay a visit to the homeless weatherland.

The sound of clicking keys and sudden appearances of computer-ised words are the tokens for my head to enter the spinning wheel. Probably these word counts are beginning to bother me; am I the only one who is stuck on the pre-10k here? I should remember about my sister, she hasn't reached the millenium stage. But word counts and time limits are not necessary to achieve the name of the most desired position, no, no.

There's always the critic that begins to bother me especially when I held two seats inside and one overpowers the other. Oh the terror of your own, when you pick it's ideal ideas only to find it destroyed again. And there's the technology [more like iron junk with small boards with gold, and information] that couldn't heal itself or live long enough, pity that we tend to look high upon them.

Note to someone #1: I hope you won't be satisfied with my own perks of being a wallflower because it's too realistic or probably it doesn't discuss about
love too much? Or too long? Or hopes too fallen? Or probably it's not as ironic
as yours? Har de harhar. Oh god I am so sick.! delete your hidden thoughts, purely this had been done before and purely it's an overrated topic. Or do you want to get the name of being the one who are hopelessly romantic? I am sure, everything will be
gone once she's gone. Quoting: plagiarism is cute!!!1!!one!

Note to someone #2: I know I am not worthy enough and I am stupid enough to cry over sarcasm that stabs the right place. But it's cool, you're older and far more suitable for the term intellectual; because I lose some tears over your words of "hope" for to end the challenge. Thanks, mister, you told me who I really am.

I can't see and will not see more words as I will vomit my insides rather than my thoughts.

Basically, all I'm hoping now is for a good revolution in my life. Push forward, one month;
New year is all I'm wishing for. Dear Santa, give me a new one.

I converse with such static, I have better conversations with myself then to other different perspectives. Probably a lot of persons had cut away whatever we have left. I end every short toneless sentence with such a small drop but forced I have never given any worse landmarks, I have never given any worse lead. I'm moving in the lines of mediocre me; stumbled words are so mediocre me; mistakes done are so mediocre me; The 'I' I refer to is so mediocre me. Nothing is forwarding, nothing is rewinding, nothing is churning itself into a better piece. 'I' let myself fall like that glass that I let it fall. I let false and envy give me a trap and I let myself fall in; sequence are going so fast I never thought I'd manage to catch it so slowly. We are perfectly humans, we are so imperfect that our damp flaws offer us the best reputation ever.

I have freedom, yes, but no, I chose to make myself with a forced will, and regrets have stayed ahead of me. I am unbearable, I am the false, the false, the false, I'd rather let my eyes taken for a push at the Rewind button. Pause. Monologue: I really don't want any of this to happen again, but it's too late. I am not liking this. ]:

Evening naptimes are rare for me now; I usually had more pointless stuff to do than that. With guests that I have to attend but with a astrong refusal, I locked myself in my room like a hermit, like my brother, and I settled in with an abrasive mix and trying to finished reading the trail of searching for a sheep with a star on it's back, I had led my eyes into total slumber. It was dark, it was 3pm, I closed my curtains so I won't have to worry about my neighbour taking a peek (doubt he/she had the nerve to). I opened the window above my head so I won't suffocate. I closed my eyes as I had doze on in the hot atmosphere. My sister is not at home anymore, and that doesn't make anything better.

I actually suffocated in my dream, or the state in which I decided not to let my mind wander off to dream land. I don't know, it was so tiring to wake myself up. The dream itself was disturbing. I remember lil particles of it, my mother was there. She told us, her children, about how there's 25 more days & it will be the end of her life because she already have the signs. I was so scared, I really feel like going out of there. No matter where there is. Because in reality, mother had been saying how she's going to die soon, and that really scares us. Suddenly I had to get off my bed and I had to make sure the bed is fully naked. There was this old man, he was telling my mother about dangerous things, I am not really sure about it. They mentioned about how something is living under my bed. & that scares me. Scene shifts into my current body folds during sleeping. My head was on my left arm, & i can see my hand. All of this is total madness, all of this needs my escape. I am not sure whether I was fully awake with only a milimeter opening of my eyelids, but I knew that's how I was, & I knew that it's reality, & I knew that I was dreaming. & I knew that it's time for me to wake up. So i tried. My mind was in control, but my head & eyes disobeyed the order. I didn't move at all. Everything was blurry. My mind tried to move my head, but it only gives bad aches all over me. It took a long time, I don't know, 15 minutes? for my head to face forward & I was relieved until I realised it won't move again. My eyes won't open wide enough, & the fan & the chair in front of me began to dissolves, but it wasn't. It wasn't dissolving at all. My eyes hurt. I forced myself again, but everything was too heavy.

My head moved to the side and my eyes are truly wide open & my fingers bookmarked the last page I read. I had a bad headache. i let the hardcore mix began all over again, with Converge as the opening, & read on the last few chapters to end it. I really love Haruki Murakami; weak plots with good thoughts are his main weakness & I like that. & I like how the main character seemed to have a dreamophonic(is there a word?) sequence as well, meeting his dead friend, The Rat, in which the sheep had used his body as well. And I like how Haruki had mentioned everything about the main character's days at the house on the mountains, waiting for the Sheep Man who tends to talk without any spacing. I really like Haruki Murakami, he's my favourite author, & there's no sarcasm here.

Remember the opened window? My cat appeared, the cat who has a crush on my brother. She hesitated on coming in, seeing how I am the sister, not the brother, but she decided after a lot of lamentation & a lot of calling from me. & so she went outside to the upper living room.

I finished A Wild Sheep Chase. I will start reading William Golding's Lord Of The Flies. I went downstairs and surprisingly, I felt really light headed. My motions come in a slow pace, I remind myself of Haruki Murakami's character. I had a nice bowl of cereals for my dinner. I didn't eat a lot today, just bread for breakfast/lunch, & the cereals for dinner. I didn't eat a lot. I'm pretty much fasting by my own rules.

I stumbled upon an intense night as it lay there quietly, as I continued pondering about what comes further other than that. And what would open the blanket from covering me up in tranquility. I set my eyes cold enough when a sullen boy asking for desperate measures. He came up with an old song in which it was filled with fallen alphabets. I am not enthralled by any stories of your lover who cuts your heart in two, but I fell for his despair and I kept his words for no one, I am not sure whether it will be burnt in a short time.

Amidst the midnight therapy, she came up and asked for a quick sober and a thin line of sound. As she bend her bones and relax, I told myself not to conceal everything that I felt under this shell, and be like linear notes of an inspiring but unhappy man. At once I found silent breathing in the record, and it felt really soothing. She mend herself by holding her face in as she felt the skin peeling off. At once I found myself shaking her regrets off, and she held me to know her sense of touch is still working, and it is, and I'm glad it does and I know that she feels like it too.

We drove the night away to fill our hunger for absolute.

I tried to rest my breathing, to follow every passerby, and to accept them for what they have. Sometimes my body parts into pieces and rebuild a new city, probably maintaining a few breaths under the low light. These small breaths, short and long, managed to catch all the phrases and statements that doesn't change anything they do. The organs that they lay on does not make beautiful yet haunting melody. Functioning itself to burn every particles inside into one, two, three movements of determination, otherwise eyelids will meet and grace the darkness. I use them for looking at a great perspective, or maybe beyond that. I tend to make my fingers tangled like my shadows do; my limbs showing themselves blending within the white walls. The air is stopped by the walls, my air is killing other matters. Inside the strong and breakable sticks, everything is frail at some point. I despised going to the deepest room inside, and see the rust. To know how my head will lost itself in a space when it fell off from the mantelpiece, confessions accidentally knocked it down. The wind blew it away, I hope it doesn't melt itself under the hot temperature. Like making adjustments by taking weaknesses and throwing them away. It won't melt. Create a new colony to hold down the sins and the bliss, and a tape deck so it'll receive songs of absolution. But I forgot my own back and I broke it.

Heaven's missiles shooting down if I love you.

When I am stuck among thousands of individuals strive along to continue their day just so they could end it on the bed peacefully and return again to the next day, I was exhausted by the packed air. I noticed how my fingers are always being held by my sister's, or is it the other way? And by then when we have put every particles of ours into a short rest I suppose, my mind is still awake. And somehow I keep thinking of these people who walk by had never have the thought of actually sitting down and actually observe for a while. Or maybe they do, but it's just that I couldn't decipher it at all from their facial expression at the moment. Somehow it felt nice to just stay quiet and to give them, each of them an invisible understanding process.

And in these times how I will try to regain my sense of picking the truth in me is easy, but I regret it. Or maybe it's for the best afterall, and one day I probably could see it, but probably it will be as a reward for my patience. And somehow it made me thinking that I am different, or they are different. And thinking with a very pretentious thought and probably trying to pick out someone that could have made everything better or how the circumstances of certain things would be if it doesn't go that way. And thinking what do I really want and why do I want a certain something or someone or somewhere for one reason that I could actually agree with. And thinking of understanding what everybody is doing and trying to make up relevant and intelligent reasons, not for their own good.

It came to me that how my surroundings are not appropriate, not what I really want, and it's remarkable how I could manage to actually blend myself in. Or actually faking myself in. And I know in some I had failed, and I kept trying eventhough it's obvious it's not meant for me, or not where am I supposed to be with. And how I hate for hating every other flaws, and I keep reminding myself not to. Hate is not the word, no I would not use it for it is not enough, but I dislike a few bits and pieces of myself. The current state does not really help either. The current people does not really help either. The current atmosphere does not really help either.

I dislike myself for changing the subject eventhough the line was not even straight. I dislike myself for making early assumptions which are probably bad enough, and how I am wishing of being something that I could not be able to. Maybe I need new people, and somehow these current individuals are not actually helping me improve in some way, but actually excel in making me moderately or going downwards. Some people hate changes, some people love. Some people.

This does not make any sense. I was tired. I am tired.

I guess it’s all a little late now. Simplicity has never strikes as how much it bothers to even leave this town covered in bruises & dandelions blown away. The smell without any touch of realism; I’m glad there’s no motion sickness. It’s like being drugged. Carrying our own body just to get through all of this, but sometimes we don’t even know where to end, & how it shall be. Fate does not really choose itself to be with us like how you said on that one night under those stars that we have given the names of our other friends.

          It was so quiet at that moment. Everything was in black and white as how it was being remembered. Or maybe that was in my part, not in yours. Often we called upon ourselves as silent observers of what revolves around us. We’re our very own philosophers, & our thoughts could not be actually held by other people. Do we actually leave them out from our idiot box? I swear that it [what contains inside this box of some sorts] has closed its eyes as well, drifting itself to its own dreamland. With such comfort and tranquility, it’s just a decoy, a trick to not to let us wake them up and be a captive.

          --- That’s how it works.

          Ah yeah, laughs, so remarkable and yet so naïve. Is that what are you trying to say?

          Dear boy with the left grey eye and black another, dear boy with the tired movements and sharp stare, it’s amazing how you managed to wear that concealer over everything that they had done to you, with no reasons after all. I sometimes wonder how you could be so sure that he, 35479 miles or more away in a life another, would still be thinking of you. While drinking tea, or while trying on a new coloured fabric keeping him warm, but every night wishing that you were there right next to him while he slowly calls upon lyrics. Here you are closing your eyes trying to bring yourself next to him, but there you are. Standing next to me, with you black ruffled hair being blown by the wind. The same black shirt buttoned up, with the loose red tie holding upon your skin & bones. You sighed with melancholic eyes that hope it will sleep tonight.

          It’s back to the drawing board. The lights are so dim I do not think we will be able to see what you are actually scribbling upon. You want it to be cold, the windows are open by an inch but by then the screaming of the children in warm black summer night already fills this room.

          He hopes that you will stop taking these pills, whatsoever use it will be, it will not lead to him.

          --- There is always a hope, even it is crap. Like how we could always go around in the neighbourhood right now without any worries. You know.

          You are writing about –

          --- A portrait of what it could be right now.

          I’m just hoping he would not be sick hearing everything of this.

          --- And I am just hoping that every atoms, particles, bits and pieces of him will be right here next to my skin.

          The postman delivered every letter with all those scented secrets waiting to be let out. The mailbox would always be eager to receive everything. There you will be right next to the mailbox, holding out your hands as the letters should be reached straight to your touch. But all of those deserved to be in the mailbox in the first place. You and that same old black shirt buttoned up with the red tie hang upon your neck loosely. You and your eyes observing the scribbled lines that maybe could not ever be reached to him.

          You do not mind me sitting right next to your bed. I do not think you think I am actually there after all. Brand New Colony is the only track being played again and again, after a long time it seems pretty hopeless to you. And everything what’s not. “Someday”, that word, you used way too much. I saw how you always walk around the room in circles. I saw how you always go to the mirror and the conversation is in circles. I saw how you always crept outside to the garden and sang the song again and again every day. In circles. Until a day the papers came and the mail deserved your hand.

          Dear boy with the deep longing, finally you closed your eyes. Gone are your fake smiles and your fake appearance. For you are just a figure to cover my mind.

the house is quiet.

those white shirts & velvety ties are hung lifelessly on the sofa, symmetrical patterns covering the surfaces, jagged edge. bright colours are so dim, under stars & covered apathy. everything new is antique by whatever reasons of this quietness. in slow motion you exhale, in slow motion carbon monoxide touches every texture. in slow motion, the hand meets another minute as observation of the stillness is complete.

- you've been walking aimlessly, where's your shoe?
You look sad, you know that. your eyes.
- i've made you a jar full of paper cranes. in rainbow colours.
You left the guitar on the porch, evening it rained, it's beginning to collect dust as it's own clothes, it's longing for you to hold it gently with your eyes uncertain of what it's meant to see. & the rain was calling you, you need to find some sort of therapy of your own.
- i need some details, this colour is too striking. more focus, please remind me that.
the lines are so cold, you don't tell them how you wished for your keepsakes be held without no affection from them, but only from you. it's not meant to sound so selfish, but this, this, your skin are growing desires for lust.

you are talking so softly, so soft even the words could not be felt by the air. you are walking around, dragging your legs to someplace you don't want to, or maybe don't even know the existance of. you held out your hand, like a blindman searching for something to give support, but you don't hold it tight, & your fingers hated everything. oh god everything's so blue, even the notes flying around are consists of chords so melancholic your eyes could close, of hunger for comfort somewhere deep inside. Somewhere deep inside.

You held out your hand, so frail but yet now you managed to hold onto another skin so strong. you reached out for yourself for confirmation, holding the silent body parts so close because that's the only skins & bones so clear you could touch. the rise & fall of his chest, him curling on the sofa with bedroom eyes, eyes so tired but clearly welcoming your appearance. his lips parted to a slight smile, you're sure it is, formed alongside with eyes so red as tears fall down for confusion. your tears. he's calling you, he's calling you so loudly under tired whispers. god how your fingers missed the skin, the curves the bones that appear, & how he told you those amazing, childish & yet brilliant bedtime stories. sad cats going through those roles as Alice & other fairy tale princess, & how everything from the closet is the most friendliest monsters ever. we'll all float on, alright already. a series of laughter, oh put down to rest all of those worries we could not turn it around but there's always a time to throw it away.

Oh my, touches travel, we move to the same notion at the same moment, at the same moment...

it's gone.

your imaginary companion is not breathing.

Exhaling deeply & slowly
in a blank surface
with every limb without any
direction or need to move.
Not able to, & yet so restless
but my lens are closing.


I'm so tired.

These soundwaves; slowly
creates understanding within
as our chance to escape
from the back of our minds.
playing for a long time as
senses regain rapid memory loss
under the shaking.
oh yeah this made us inconsiderate
i'm extremely mortified by the grace
call it as a call, to frame
our murder of the inside.



It's very nice how you nicely
pinned it down to your side
as an invisible companion. with the
amount of what we have made
meaninglessly; I saw you stutter.
We had what a grand breakthrough
entering the phase: tiptoe
to comprehend: strike a pose
& for what we feared
unbelievable we bend
& let them accept our fake smiles.


Blame it on the wires
& the shining discs
when something adored were stopped abruptly
without any reason
(remember to pose)
we don't like what we have been to
even this red curtains could not save us
for our game: backfired.

Maybe, all you need, is just what all I have, but of course with more of your preferences sprinkled on top. I could not see. & all I could say was how we are right now, when we could have been something better. But it was all nothing, & nothing could come out of it. Why are you trying to look away, or maybe do you want to make me feel guilty after all these things? I know. I do know. There's no point in pointing it out, the second time, when Everything was already gone. I tried to change Everything into Nothing, or even Anything that is not compulsary, but I guess it will never work. It's how these simple things work so complicated, & it's how these simple things will bring out the worst.

I am not in my best shape, but never would it have been if you were there, taking out every single piece & would then analyze it. Each & every piece, do not left anything out. I know we were not in the best ways, & we would not have a strong connection, but there is nothing else there is to say, other than telling each other how our days are, in 2 short sentences. It's not how we managed to call up & then return our favours with those stares. Maybe only you give me those stares, while all I could do is look at you longingly pathetically. I know I was, & still am pathetic. I know that this is nothing, compared to what you have right now. & I know, even if I could have hold you closer & longer, I could not receive anything that your Everything did, & still does.

It all seems so immature. I am immature. Maybe you are more immmature than who I am, since how your favourite things are not what a perfect thing it supposed to be, in terms of concept. There's always the answer, does age really matter? it would shut all my counters. We dont even exchange & ignore comments. We barely waste our voice to each other.

Maybe it's just pure jealousy. But I am told to throw away the dust from the old attic, but here I am, still tracing my name. Is there a point? Was there a point? I agree, I should have done whatever you did, but you were the one who decided. I am nothing more. If you pull it away, you could. & it's easy, because it's not your point of living. Neither it should be mine. But here I am, telling myself, to tell you, how do I feel.

But how do I feel? I don't know. Everything is static, numb, controlled by something that is invisible, even to you, to myself, to everybody. Fixing could be hard, since I can not find the source, eventhough I know the cause is the simplistic you. I am nowhere near this line, separating us. I am nowhere, & I am trying to head south, when you are at north. I almost reached for it, but there's always the turn. I am going on with my way, I am leaving, but I could not forget home. If you were ever my home.

I could just always move. But then, I would always ask about your mime. & how that I should have break that big mirror in my old house.

-------
I want to be a photographer & to major in Films during my University years.

It's how you make all these sweet words, dear. As it travels along the road, down the crooked lane, it's all the same but with a hint of desperation bigger than before. You shouldn't be somewhere there, because you know how it makes me feel all around. Are you calling my name like how you called your desire under attack?
I am so solemn, so frail; & yet there's always the falling smile of yours going under these blurred heights. I will surprise you sometime. I will surprise you sometime. & it's how these small things are meant to be called, & to be called as the cloth wrapped around you.

Touché.

Oh we're a bunch of lunatics, drowning in your own subtle ways of making things much easier. Your hint of compromise is the disguise of us following your words. I'd rather have my voice struck on these promises that we will not fulfil them, rather than killing our dreams by a stupid suggestion oh. Other people live like there is no other day such as tomorrow, but can't we give birth to our hope today?

music Modest Mouse - Third Planet.

WHO IS WHO WE ARE oh self-conscious, the light is on, but it looks like it might be gone (or maybe your iris does not let it in?) We end up in the dark but we don't tell them, the reason for who we are to be represent here. You know, because everytime when people often feel sad during gloomy days, it's not a remarkable result if there is someone who is awfully happy. But back then, these hyprocite weathers are often the concept of emotions. But you know, everytime when the weather's in a bad mood, there's always a happy end in the end, & so everything would be okay, like how it was called for. Even riding imaginary horses & listening to the beat of the tapping under the table, oh constant tension, you are not that welcomed & we are please for your leave. But then, there's always the papers taking the ideas from those who havee written for us. & there's always the honest thoughts about melody to be done, the deadline is so soon there is no more haste. When we could, well, always give ourselves a cookie each.
& another truth done still.

On another essential record; Tim Fletcher of The Stills is the only druggie looking boy that I like. Logic will break your heart.

music The Spill Canvas - All Hail The Heartbreaker.

This arrangement does tell me the best of things but you know, I am what I was not meant to be & there's always this feeling inside of me to go somewhere so I guess we could take a ride. From here. From here we start the outlines & oh, have I told you when this is how I am when there is nothing else to say? I often say that we deserve what there was for us to actually waste our time on, but of course, meaningful. & I hope to be one of those things because it maybe would make me feel a lot better & I would not be wishing by depending on my low-esteem. & also, like any other living things that breathe & think, there is a time dedicated for appreciation of all the things that I have done, & what I have wasted my time for doing so, & it was a matter of fact really good from me. Great.

The ability to analyze is very special, & the ability to actually realise the meaning behind everything rationally is something more that all of us are actually searching for, but you know, we might have placed it in the farthest space in our mind.

& all we could do is create cute names & laugh at the cat's peculiar behaviour.