Friday, May 13, 2011


It's summer and i guess this means we ought to feel free and fly forever, or at least see how far we can glide on easterly winds by the time august rolls around. i guess this means i’ll be seeing you soon, sweating your skin through my skin and showing you how worthwhile the fucking waiting was, painting meadows in the crook of your neck. panning for gold in the small of your back, grazing the pale sides of your theighs because we have all summer and i can finally take my time to get you feeling right. the heat here just sort of sits in between the crests of all our hills, why don’t you sleep closer to the sun, angel, see if you can turn to vapor and sink into my valleys, let me soak you in; it’s summer and i have all the time in the world to get you out of my skin in time for the cold to settle through again. i guess this means the black spots and the empty spaces are finally going to be filled again; lighting candles and singing proclamations too soon, get lost in the woods, get found by blessing burned true by the blue lights of dusk, the trails the osprey leaves heading home again, right here, with you, or right there, a little bit less than present. but its summer, you have all the time in your pockets, i guess this means you have time to fly forever and perch in the light of july.
Illusions are to the soul what atmosphere is to the earth. Roll up that tender air and the plant dies, the colour fades. The earth we walk on is a parched cinder. It is marl we tread and fiery cobbles scorch our feet. By the truth we are undone. Life is a dream. ‘Tis waking that kills us."
—Virginia Woolf, Orlando: A Biography

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