noticing patterns of behaviour, big hulking sulking stupid boys; and the ones who mean something. it's all thrown away, by them, by anyone. ((here comes the rain again, falling from the stars)).
proper, beautiful old stars, from stopstart motion pictures from the beginning of the twentieth century.
longing, absoutely longing for it to be like it was, inexplicably happy, because of attentions, and add a manic vicious circle quality to it. i am selfish. i want to be happy. i want all my friends around me.
so blink into the sunlight, and we can dream all about it, while you move on get drunk, kiss someone or other everynight, and sit, but don't think. everyone agrees, too much thinking is bad for you. i think your head is empty.
i should get so terribly lonely. there is no one to disappear into our own little world with, which is exactly what i want. i must be patient, or else, more realistic.
i do like my version of reality.
it is odd, sort of annoying that all these thoughts are relayed and written and formed and produced, with you sitting pretty in front of my eyes. what is there now?
i am struggling to find out.
i find with this happiness, i am as superficial as the rest. i have no one to be particularly happy for.
i want to live in germany, for a bit.
and france,and australia, and amsterdam! will you come?
i should like very much to be isabelle,
now.

Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending:

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