It's too many days since '..& I must confess my heart's all broke in pieces and my head's a mess' and it's four in the morning. Oh no, actually that's a lie and it's twentytwonineteen. Someone is actually standing outside in the squashed crushed velvet darkness, damp dewy grass underfoot shouting "Stella" at a window & it makes me wonder if some cycles of life, those paths that other people tread (with more grace and sure-footedness than I am surely capable of) are more interesting & colourful, celluloid technicolour colour saturated wonders. I do actually wonder where this leads and consider questioning my lecturers at any opportunity, threaten their confident contained (calculated?) eccentricity. I fail to record any meaningful meaning or occurence, this is filtered and wilting, insipid drivel - which when my head is buzzing and queasy from too much inside itself and it spills over into lectures where "Something really kinky and perverted" is something to be scribbled about. And strangely enough? Critical practice is not. I woke up this morning to scratchy neighbours singing the Beach Boys, so I slept some more. And I play the Fratellis deep into the night, so it is twisted into their heads when they dream. My Mooie & I went to see the Fratellis and were the first people there to be drunk, which I consider quite an achievement. It was smoke and smokefiltered coloured lights, sex on the beach and being tangled and crushed and screaming with my Nanamoo, who I love to a million pieces and more. There was a scary taxi driver and scraping up and down tube lines and I love Anna so very very much.
I cook for myself entirely now. Tonight I threw lots of vegetables into a pot and cooked them with abandon. Oh and it was fucking lush. Don't you love being other people. I hear forced coerced and pushed screaming imprinted to my ear drums stories and why, oh why dearest you are so angry and a long stream of criticisms, so you are almost here my greatest friend and my biggest enemy - but of course only inside my head. I'll let you sleep in my bed and drag sharp criticism all over my skin and I'll absorb all these things that shatter and break and your self-confidence, assuredness. And a brittle and ugly wall builds itself up, to hurl myself against instead of you, because it's impossible. Is it only the best that I can't argue with? It falls to pieces in my head. 'So if you're crazy, I don't care you amaze me, but you're a stupid girl.' Bruises and burnt in welts, it's supposed to be freedom, but it is hard to adjust, even though physically the prison may no longer be there, inside your mind it grows tighter.

Feeling: no, you don't even know me. oh my., you caught my eye.
Listening to: the fratellis [did you guess]
Pretending: 'is it out of line if i were to be bold and say "would you be mine?"'

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