scrawls
still cheaper than therapy*


25.3.10
Coffee, good coffee, like new silk stirred into cream. A golden silhouette of an eclipsing cloud. The sweet velvet smell of sun on my lips after winter, my eyes closed, in the patience of a long streetcar ride north - i hear people get on, get off, and they are not of the world. These words in a whisper. So long, it's been so long, i am so hungry and so accustomed. My skin is electric, incandescent. Instead of crying out, i swallow and let go.

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scrawled @ 08:51






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