As the end of the week chases my tale, I can't help but try to regain at least some of my innocence back. I would love to write right now, but I find I don't quite have the words in my arsenal to relay all that I have been thinking and feeling the last few weeks. Today, I need to be everybody's rock, the place which they feel safe enough to fall on. My sanity is malleable, but tomorrow, I hope, I will be in a safe space to fall apart like I need to. Internally, I am unravelling. Others fall apart, though, and I am the one they come to. So I must be the fierce and loyal friend they need. After that, well...I will unravel away, burrowed in my own longing and loneliness.


Quote of the day: “Why love the boy in a March field with his kite braving the sky? Because our fingers burn with the hot string singeing our hands. Why love some girl viewed from a train bent to a country well? The tongue remembers iron water cool on some long lost noon. Why weep at strangers dead by the road? They resemble friends unseen in forty years. Why laugh when clowns are hot by pies? We taste custard we taste life. Why love the woman who is your wife? Her nose breathes the air of a world that I know; therefore I love that nose. Her ears hear music I might sing half the night through; therefore I love her ears. Her eyes delight in seasons of the land; and so I love those eyes. Her tongue knows quince, peach, chokeberry, mint and lime; I love to hear it speaking. Because her flesh knows heat, cold, affliction, I know fire, snow, and pain. Shared and once again shared experience. Billions of prickling textures. Cut one sense away, cut part of life away. Cut two senses; life halves itself on the instant. We love what we know, we love what we are. Common cause, common cause, common cause of mouth, ear, tongue, hand, nose, flesh, heart, and soul." ~Ray Bradbury-Something Wicked This Way Comes.

Song of the day: http://youtu.be/5fBFX0WLyys

Poem of the day:

Baudelaire in Airports
by Amy King
Will my arm be enough to reach you? On whose side is indecision? You are the mother of material travel, even in the form of a shoeless child. It is difficult to place time—especially here. You aren’t now, and you don’t come here. The other sameness, an other of the same in the window before take off. So she learned past such things the echo. With the same eye from windows one watches a person with umbrella, sleek and pointed, seek sky from its wet roof. As if the bitter low would be a woman with whiskers, her eyes desperate, street-view, alone. How does this view of everything arc the moon? If a mosquito lands, what happens to the one who flew? She gives over to the site of red, another selfless pooling. A hungry pond. The painting of the person also wears mobile eggs, and the woman returns to wheat fields to drink goat’s milk for her meal and bath. That the body harbors more than combination, that we are more than alchemy’s process, that they are agents and actors incognito, is visible only to those strolling on avenues on lost streets Parisian, no longer able to be found.