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anywhere the wind blows

doesn't really matter to me

This journal may contain adult concepts.

Created on 2004-03-03 17:13:37 (#2400537), last updated 2009-11-18

5,692 comments received, 5,324 comments posted

Basic Info
Name:§...le théâtre mnémotechnique...§
Birthdate:10-30
Location:California, United States
Bio

love
this is the livejournal of one rather insomniac and scatterbrained writer who writes better poetry than prose and loves to sing to church walls. the first daughter and the seventh cousin, this writer will tell you she doesn't really matter, really never did, and will take you--if you are so kind to consent--to the land of where she dreams in fever tones and fluid rashes, that wonderland where children learn early on to escape to when life itself is more of a dream than a reality. isn't it pretty, she whispers, when everything seems alive?



style
when I was small, I used to draw with chalk on the street with the neighborhood kids. we weren't really friends, but there was always enough chalk for everyone. we weren't really artists, but some could draw flowers and words and stars. sometimes, when I am afraid, I think of the sidewalk and pretend to balance on my toes, laughing at the cars that roll by
beauty
and maybe, in that world of sweet and sour agony, there was a man and he was good. on the stage, where the lights shine hard and hot, he lifted the curtain and peered out at the crowd. all dressed in suits and all clad in button eyes, the crowd peered back, muttered back, and the man dropped the curtain, smoothed the curtain, and fled out the back door
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