grey days and veins

[_fissures]

These days in the morning I'm out of bed before 6am which is when the construction site first begins to cough, rattling its nuts and bolts, and wake. I can hear it across the street as I make my way down the corridor toward the kitchen, knocking against itself, two buildings like two wintered knees against the blanched sky. I'll make coffee and

Comments

[_fissures]

Always the pretty boys and the long golden curls and too many whiskey bottles taken out to trash. Too much lipstick and hair dye and cigarettes, cuts on your arms and charcoal under my fingernails and huksy voices over the phone and the melodrama and how we created a metaphor for every aspect of life. Le Cirque was much more than a dream, or an extended conceit communicated through long emails in year ten and eleven; it was a lifestyle. ♥

That is right, we are both going to Sydney, next year! It still seems surreal, a fabricated whimsy that for so long, was shrinking and drying and out of reach. Remember, the wild and strange ideas we had about English professors and their blazers of tweed and black-rimmed glasses and erudite conversations, wooden fireplaces and Romantic poetry. Now our dreams of ivy-clawed towers seems a little too imminent, a little too bright, not twilight-lit.

I shall have to get World Movies as well - we have the service in this apartment block. Also, rather excitedly, (peculiarly) I've gotten a subscription to Quadrant which Ms Woods told us about: very intellectual and well-written but right-wing she said. And, what's more, is that I've got my library to my local library, which happens to be large and only a few minutes down the road (or Parade, as it is) and shall borrow Broken April tomorrow morning. Huzzah for good books.