The Typewriter (a work in progress)

As a child I had a penchant for type-writers.

My mother kept one in the cold out-house that as children we were not allowed into, on account of my sister having fallen and cut her chin. Perhaps it was also to do with her dislike for anything eight-legged stealing it’s way into the house that instilled the fear in her warnings.

Unnoticed, however, I would visit that grey and enthralling machine nightly and return to smudge ink finger prints across walls in my bedroom.

love rhymes

"I have loved to the point of madness; that which is called madness, that which to me, is the only sensible way to love." - Françoise Sagan

cycling trivialities?

Kissing to 'Flying Lotus'/Fresh Sheets/Winter Nights/Two Jobs/Skipping More Classes.

Do you ever have that moment when your life feels so surreal you put on headphones just to drown it all out?



all this time chasing dreams,
without knowing what you want each one to mean.

/

well you know before I met you I was doing fine.

they only want you when you're seventeen, when your 21, you're no fun.

My 21st 'dinner party' turned into a more-fucked-up-than-most Thursday at NEXT. We recovered slowly throughout the day only for me to pull 'a Hemingway' (read: shot an entire bottle of Southern Comfort, write madly by the Yarra at 4am, and attempt to sleep in my bathtub) Kirra decided to refer to herself as 'the reclining Buddah' and instructed us all to throw money at her. Twenty-ish people were crammed into my small (read: SMALL) aparment. The police came largely due to mine and Kirra's terrible singing. The weekend was not a boring one.

Maybe we should go out tonight?

where the heart is.

I miss ---