The happiest hour is now. This is how I want you to remember me.
Cyra (butterflake) 18 March 2009
The happiest hour is now. When in my supplication I have found strength that flows like so much water over my skin. I am enveloped in the bath of surrender, feeding on steam that rolls off my chest and catches my eyes to pass back into my mouth, open and vulnerable. This is how I voice my oldest child and this. This is how I want you to remember me.
Oliver, Stacia's friend 18 March 2009
The happiest hour is now. Now, when you've awake for 25 of them, and thoughts of soon-approaching sleep blot out all bad memories, thoughts of missed changes, and fantasies of painful conversations that you will never have. You can see the sun beginning to rise, though its often blocked by the buildings downtown. You think of walking home, closing your eyes most of the way, air cool but not cold, the sun putting you half to sleep. But then you'll get home, collapse into bed, and wake up with only a few hours of daylight left, remembering that you forgot to brush your teeth. These days I sleep when you work and work when you sleep, and never the twain shall meet.
We used to go for walks at midnight and talk for hours. With a couple shots of bourbon I was funny, was I ever funny. And with the same you would laugh so laugh I'd worry about waking up sleeping kids.
This is how I want you to remember me.
Stephanie 18 March 2009
The happiest hour is ... now! Clinking laughter of cigarette sweat. I always come here when they're playing that song. I've never been so self-conscious looking for a loss of control. Bodies moving like heat. A moment's pause, the tableau, everything started falling, people scattered like birds, was it an earthquake, there's nothing left to this scene, and I move on to the next second in time: This is how I want you to remember me.
Stacia (bakayal) 18 March 2009
The happiest hour is now. The sunshine streaming through the window, making golden pools on the shaggy rug, the silver bells hanging from your ears. Laughing as we grab each other and tumble around like children. We made forts back then, with old sheets and forgotten pillows, but never spent the night in them. Instead you preferred the blanket of the sky, with the stars giving false icy kisses through the night. In the morning, we rose and wiped dew off of the dandelions and sleep out of our eyes. Your pupils are large and your eyelashes are butterfly legs on my face. This is how I want you to remember me.
Allen (animaeruption) 18 March 2009
The happiest hour is now. It's midmorning and the rainclouds have just begun to get tired. The decreasing shower matches slowing cloud travel and pink petals lifting back up after the last of sweet drippings hit the mossy floor. It is completely silent in my grove except for the occasional creature interruption, the constant whisper of breeze, and the odd musical wispy. The sunshine is coming out to dry the damp away and I smile as I wish you were on this stone bench next to me. This is how I want you to remember me.
Curt 18 March 2009
The happiest hour. Well, I've heard the drinks are cheap. Stepping out into the rain, I light a smoke. I pull my brim low enough to look into the eyes of a stranger, and wonder just how many cliches I can pull off in an evening. This is NOT HOW I WANT YOU TO REMEMBER ME. So I pad back up the hill to my apartment, flick on the lights, and kick on the bass. It thumps across the room and up my spine. Hell, two doors down the neighbors let out a moan. Two in the morning now. I'm worn down to the roots, out of smokes and now, I think, standing there covered in sweat, furious and lost in my madness, this moment, surrounded by my broken life, this is alright. This is how I want you to remember me.
Bryan 18 March 2009
The happiest hour is now.
The witching hour, the day's darkest, a silent hour - my hour.
It must be mine, for I must truly be only when farthest from the sun I can hide.
My own dark ritual, performed for no dark master, no higher power.
Executed for my own sheer pleasure, my own benefit, and no others know - must not know.
Losing it.
As life gets out of control.
I am losing it. My ritual, alone it grounds me, like a grand [old] craft it degenerates - stuck.
Bring wings!
No such luck.
No help.
My course across suburban lawns. A fence interposes, intercedes, interludes permanently. Vaulting it tears me apart
Stop this at once.
Escalation - but can I do it naked? I need cool-grass-dew-air kissing my naked body as I run, earthy scents, dog-barks barring my way not at all.
My mistress - night, mater nox - is leaving me - no, we're being separated, torn from my life.
No more sweet caress-embrace in the witching hour?
It signals my end, foretells my suicide. Leaving this note and confession by my unclothed side - I want you to remember me like this.
Me (burgunder) 18 March 2009
The happiest hour is now.
I'm paying attention.
The music is interesting, the people around me are better than comic book characters: epic. The smells are coffee, tea, the shit and piss of the Ave, cold autumn air lying because, hey, it's spring.
I am completely alone here, while also filled with stories about everything around me. I am in love with these strangers, this music that I don't know with its double drum and melodic guitar, ascending. I am in love with the warm welcoming tea in a fierce dance of denial with the urban fuck you.
I am beautiful now
because
I am not judging anything, just experiencing, here, now, accepting.
I don't need anything to change.
I am perfect right now because perfect is irrelevant in the face of this.
This is how I want you to remember me.
The happiest hour is now. When in my supplication I have found strength that flows like so much water over my skin. I am enveloped in the bath of surrender, feeding on steam that rolls off my chest and catches my eyes to pass back into my mouth, open and vulnerable. This is how I voice my oldest child and this. This is how I want you to remember me.
Oliver, Stacia's friend 18 March 2009
The happiest hour is now. Now, when you've awake for 25 of them, and thoughts of soon-approaching sleep blot out all bad memories, thoughts of missed changes, and fantasies of painful conversations that you will never have. You can see the sun beginning to rise, though its often blocked by the buildings downtown. You think of walking home, closing your eyes most of the way, air cool but not cold, the sun putting you half to sleep. But then you'll get home, collapse into bed, and wake up with only a few hours of daylight left, remembering that you forgot to brush your teeth. These days I sleep when you work and work when you sleep, and never the twain shall meet.
We used to go for walks at midnight and talk for hours. With a couple shots of bourbon I was funny, was I ever funny. And with the same you would laugh so laugh I'd worry about waking up sleeping kids.
This is how I want you to remember me.
Stephanie 18 March 2009
The happiest hour is ... now! Clinking laughter of cigarette sweat. I always come here when they're playing that song. I've never been so self-conscious looking for a loss of control. Bodies moving like heat. A moment's pause, the tableau, everything started falling, people scattered like birds, was it an earthquake, there's nothing left to this scene, and I move on to the next second in time: This is how I want you to remember me.
Stacia (bakayal) 18 March 2009
The happiest hour is now. The sunshine streaming through the window, making golden pools on the shaggy rug, the silver bells hanging from your ears. Laughing as we grab each other and tumble around like children. We made forts back then, with old sheets and forgotten pillows, but never spent the night in them. Instead you preferred the blanket of the sky, with the stars giving false icy kisses through the night. In the morning, we rose and wiped dew off of the dandelions and sleep out of our eyes. Your pupils are large and your eyelashes are butterfly legs on my face. This is how I want you to remember me.
Allen (animaeruption) 18 March 2009
The happiest hour is now. It's midmorning and the rainclouds have just begun to get tired. The decreasing shower matches slowing cloud travel and pink petals lifting back up after the last of sweet drippings hit the mossy floor. It is completely silent in my grove except for the occasional creature interruption, the constant whisper of breeze, and the odd musical wispy. The sunshine is coming out to dry the damp away and I smile as I wish you were on this stone bench next to me. This is how I want you to remember me.
Curt 18 March 2009
The happiest hour. Well, I've heard the drinks are cheap. Stepping out into the rain, I light a smoke. I pull my brim low enough to look into the eyes of a stranger, and wonder just how many cliches I can pull off in an evening. This is NOT HOW I WANT YOU TO REMEMBER ME. So I pad back up the hill to my apartment, flick on the lights, and kick on the bass. It thumps across the room and up my spine. Hell, two doors down the neighbors let out a moan. Two in the morning now. I'm worn down to the roots, out of smokes and now, I think, standing there covered in sweat, furious and lost in my madness, this moment, surrounded by my broken life, this is alright. This is how I want you to remember me.
Bryan 18 March 2009
The happiest hour is now.
The witching hour, the day's darkest, a silent hour - my hour.
It must be mine, for I must truly be only when farthest from the sun I can hide.
My own dark ritual, performed for no dark master, no higher power.
Executed for my own sheer pleasure, my own benefit, and no others know - must not know.
Losing it.
As life gets out of control.
I am losing it. My ritual, alone it grounds me, like a grand [old] craft it degenerates - stuck.
Bring wings!
No such luck.
No help.
My course across suburban lawns. A fence interposes, intercedes, interludes permanently. Vaulting it tears me apart
Stop this at once.
Escalation - but can I do it naked? I need cool-grass-dew-air kissing my naked body as I run, earthy scents, dog-barks barring my way not at all.
My mistress - night, mater nox - is leaving me - no, we're being separated, torn from my life.
No more sweet caress-embrace in the witching hour?
It signals my end, foretells my suicide. Leaving this note and confession by my unclothed side - I want you to remember me like this.
Me (burgunder) 18 March 2009
The happiest hour is now.
I'm paying attention.
The music is interesting, the people around me are better than comic book characters: epic. The smells are coffee, tea, the shit and piss of the Ave, cold autumn air lying because, hey, it's spring.
I am completely alone here, while also filled with stories about everything around me. I am in love with these strangers, this music that I don't know with its double drum and melodic guitar, ascending. I am in love with the warm welcoming tea in a fierce dance of denial with the urban fuck you.
I am beautiful now
because
I am not judging anything, just experiencing, here, now, accepting.
I don't need anything to change.
I am perfect right now because perfect is irrelevant in the face of this.
This is how I want you to remember me.