All these years, and I'm still the kind of person who writes 2000-word emails, and hovers over the send button about a hundred times before deciding to let them rot as drafts. On the upside, in case of recourse I'll soon have an eloquently worded, impeccably punctuated, and obscenely dramatic epistolery novel ready. That is, of course, if apocalypse/terminal illness doesn't strike first. In which case, it would be just a whole lot of histrionics wasted, on a significantly lesser quantity of it. 

R.E.M. disbanded. Such utter travesty. 

2011 is, indeed, the year of much heartache. 

Let me. Not be. That obvious.

From crest to dale (back around)
Wound, is interminable dearth
To the conflict of extravagance
To the dispute of mirth.

Measured out in quints
Would be remnants of fear
The marked need for something
To make my tragedies more sincere.

Quid pro quo, will also end up making the whole world blind.

An Observation (Updated)

SRK is the new Rajinikanth.
Edit all references accordingly.

give me a week or two to || go absolutely cuckoo || and when you see your error || then you can flee in terror

Atalanta in Calydon

"Before the beginning of years,
There came to the making of man
Time, with the gift of tears,
Grief, with a glass that ran;
Pleasure, with pain for leaven;
Summer, with flowers that fell;
Remembrance fallen from heaven,
And madness risen from hell;
Strength without hands to smite;
Love that endures for a breath;
Night, the shadow of light,
And life, the shadow of death."

-Algernon Charles Swinburne

We drink copious amounts of coffee and debate the Rastafari movement; talk art and Balzac and new world order (if we're feeling particularly zany, of course), all while the world keeps turning and the sun keeps shining. But the fact that we can never entirely be sure that we're not figments of someone else's imagination just continues to blow my mind on a regular basis. And then it's Plato's cave, all over again. 

rock and roll, complete control.

The air has been heavy. Heavy with poignance. It's been making it much too easy to float away, and far too difficult to breathe in. So I hole up in a room with endless spools of yarn and the comforting sound of two needles clicking away. The meditative nature of a repetitive exercise is grossly underestimated. Nimble fingers in constant motion, winding strands of wool in intricate patterns, creating more of something new with each move. Knit, purl. Knit, purl. Knit, purl. Weave it all in. The sounds, the thoughts, the dissonance. Bind it in the knots and weave it in, create something pretty, and let that be it. Years worth of grief will hang in your cupboard someday. 

And whenever too much is wrong with the world, I will knit. 

Dear 21st century,

What's with the crap music? Please bring the 90s back. Also, the reality of living in a world where Youtube comments exist, serves up a freshly brewed philosophical crisis with the daily morning coffee.  

Yours truly,

Among other things, a dedicated Aerosmith junkie