scrawls
still cheaper than therapy*


30.4.15
that would be the dream - the mosaic, the hand-painted, ancient historic, added-on, made-new, art deco vintage-hippie-revival haven, an orchard, a slanted roofline, dormers and wood and tile.  Sure, it calls to me.  Obviously.  Could it ever not?  Are there people, real human people, to whom it would not  beckon?  I cannot decide where to hang the great dragonfly.  Darling, i have been saving the great dragonfly for twenty years for this, with all his blue and green, with the marks and leftover folds of each interval.

I have not been dreaming of this house - there's no piano, there's too much light, the garden is so narrow and the trees so high.  And anyway, happiness is not tied to location.  My home is not a place.  As we speed through the edge of the galaxy, I remain an insignificant speck forever at the center of the universe.

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scrawled @ 14:33

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