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am i correct to defend the fist that holds this pen?

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:: 2007 1 October :: 4.19am
:: Mood: hopeful
:: Music: red bird - johnnytwentythree

i love you. truly, i do.

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:: 2007 27 September :: 11.58pm
:: Mood: amused
:: Music: music of the spheres - the receiving end of sirens

my people were fair and had sky in their hair
there is so much running around here: early wake up call and then separate views of perspective, the study of the human as we are vain vain creatures and then --- oh. and then it's plunging, straight-forward, into the portrayal of the basic principles of design using the formal elements, visual literacy, a touch of 4d to transfer into and some sequential design studies of the universe.

it's bright and alive and wonderful.

i live in a building that has a ghost, with construction downstairs, and the way i get to class is down a fire escape. its hot and sticky outside, the kind of heat which is cloying and forever sticking to your skin, even after you've gotten indoors.

(which is not to say that the sleepless nights are bothering me still. they aren't. it's for good reasons anyway, so i suppose that's a change for the better.)

sometimes i will sit outside the library, on round stone benches with the sun blocked out by leaves, and that is when i will remember.

this, i will say to myself, this is what i've been waiting for. art school: a bachelor of fine arts degree in graphic & interactive communication (+a minor in advertising?) at one of the best colleges, literally, on the planet.

yes. i think i might finally be content.

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:: 2007 24 July :: 1.22am
:: Mood: aggravated
:: Music: unemployed in summertime - emiliana torrini

i feel like i need to write something, anything, but whenever i imagine how the words should fit it just sounds stunted and careless.

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:: 2007 14 July :: 11.55pm
:: Music: rosie's lullaby - norah jones

she doesn't get what it all means, and sometimes it will slip through the gaps in her fingers, but then she will shake her head, and sigh, and her hands will tug at her jumper.

she's growing up in this place all over again, and suddenly little miss rosie has to worry about things like mortgages and carpets and doors, but any misplaced feeling that will bubble up inside will just get pushed down and down and down until she can almost not feel it anymore.

the thing is, she has words stuck in the back of her throat, waiting and waiting for the chance to be free from her mouth, but the silence will filter in and then it will melt into nothing.

sometimes late at night the phone will sing, and when she picks up the dial tone will hum loudly in her ear. she will wonder if it's some sort of mixed-up message, and then she will forget it by the next day. her life continues.

she travels, because it's better than the alternative, and that has to be enough. her hair is darker, and she is older, less angry. airports get to be routine and the pressure in her lungs when they lift off doesn't fade away until she will remember that this is her life, now, and she doesn't really need a home.

it's hard, but she moves on.

somewhere far away a voice crackles, disconnects, and the only sound left is a dead signal, speeding away into the night.

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:: 2007 27 May :: 1.36am
:: Mood: contemplative
:: Music: happy ending - mika

no hope, no love, no glory; no happy ending
i turned eighteen a week ago, and i hated it. worst birthday ever.

i also really hate the fact that i could just up and leave my life if a fictional character came to my door and offered to show me all of time and space. it's unsettling that i daydream about leaving forever, and never coming back.

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:: 2007 10 May :: 10.19pm
:: Mood: frustrated
:: Music: one year later - bear mccreary

this is the way the world ends
getting fucked with some of your best friends vs. coming home early to finish preparing for an ap art exam the next day.

guess which one i picked, and which one i regret not doing.

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:: 2007 26 April :: 10.38pm
:: Mood: relaxed
:: Music: knockin' on heaven's door (instr.)

italia and back again.

life is at the kind of hectic level where every new hour feels like a year.
by the end of this week i'll have aged a century.

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:: 2007 8 March :: 1.11am
:: Mood: calm
:: Music: when soul meets body - rose polenzani

i cannot guess what we'll discover.
i love the way sleep smells when you've just woken up from a nap: it's like warmth and comfort wrapped into a new, glowing sensation.

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:: 2007 6 March :: 11.27pm
:: Mood: peaceful
:: Music: dead to the world - royksopp

cinematic expressions of inner self-loathing if there are no mirrors to smash
she breathes. pauses.
cloth brushes against her calves calmly,
and clouds are building and boiling over the water.

wind scoops up the fabric of her skirt,
sways and twirls it, an invisible semaphore,
signaling to the tiny faint stars half-erased by the imminent rain.

the dull, greasy feel of a night storm is creeping up under her sleeves,
smearing her cheeks.

she closes her eyes, gathers her karma, and prays for lightning.

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:: 2007 28 February :: 9.20pm
:: Mood: busy
:: Music: beautiful never - mstu

you don't know what you're doing here, really, or if it'll change anything. the sky above villengarde is bright, cloudless; different from how you left it. you can imagine factories smudging black against the skyline, the mirage fade-out of heat swelling over fields.

it's just green now.

the sun blazes down and you squint upwards, right hand covering your forehead as the other rests comfortably on your hip.

this is new. different.

you stare up so long that you feel like you aren't grounded, just seconds from floating up and away, away, away.

away, away, away. into the blue.

above even this you know its all just black, full of swirling gases and cosmic dust and stars waiting to die. but you still stare, almost longingly (re: desperately), and inside you know its an illusion of perfection.

(freedom hangs like heaven over everyone).

why? you ask, and you think you feel a breeze.

you try asking again, but there's no reply. the banana palms sway to themselves, casting intricate shadows on the grass below, potassium-rich and silent.

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:: 2007 27 February :: 3.50pm
:: Mood: contemplative
:: Music: torchwood

extreme ways to break your arm
later he'll blame it on the alcohol he hasn't been drinking and the hysteria he's never given in to and his own weakness for late twentieth-century science fiction films, which is legitimate, if illaudable.

long coats and too many guns and waking up from your own death - hell, a guy's allowed to identify, right? he's flying, he's out of his depth, he's alice down the fucking rabbit hole.

and as the air resistance becomes a painful crushing force against his ribcage he wonders, insanely, if the concrete will turn to rubber and bounce him upwards.

it doesn't.

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:: 2007 27 February :: 3.06am
:: Mood: pensive

i'm really sort of strange, and i think that's okay.

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:: 2007 25 February :: 1.27am
:: Mood: mellow
:: Music: les jours tristes - yann tiersen

we are not
wild as the wind, she says,
but constricted
to the distance between
passing glances (sighs).

i am struck by the inspiration to write in the simplest of situations: walking back from the kitchen, putting on socks, brushing my teeth.

i need the complete works of edna st. vincent millay, sylvia plath, john keats, and emily dickinson.

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:: 2007 19 February :: 11.20pm
:: Mood: weird
:: Music: a bit of fry and laurie

it's odd to have your name used so casually between strangers. sharing something that's just a word, but is really the whole of your being, something that describes you, is you, but simultaneously is just a way of identification.

i want to know if every other person with my name shares my traits, or my ambitions, or my strange tendencies. if we have friends with the same names, if we like the same books, wear the same clothes.

imagine if we didn't have names for things. words made up to express something we feel, even though they're mostly inadequate and they push emotions into little restrictive sentences. it's all so strange.

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:: 2007 14 February :: 12.02am
:: Mood: resigned
:: Music: cotton wool - lamb

and i could stay there (make my home there)
alone, again, but it isn't a new sensation.

how everything keeps fitting together and the way things turn to dust are intriguing, at best. but i'm adopting a new policy.

how things were, or are, is no longer the point. ahead of me it feels like a gauzy fabric is wrapped around future packaging; a fog, the kind that drifts and smoothes over the long grasses of fields and leaves dew in its wake.

hopefully, about now, transpiration/condensation/evaporation is still in effect.

i'm not waiting. i'm memorizing the shape of things to come.

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