Baby: now my song's a flood.
Dear string ridden orchestras, on the morning day and night of number in July.
Do you blame me for this abandonement. I have just been living it without a thought to recite. And Since Or left, I haven't wanted to say she's gone. . . So it's been harder to write of the events, the days. She told me to stop praying, that she'll be back soon. my body reacted in trembles and shreiks. The highest highs of pitch.
I still want a baby, so far I'm only pregnant with the moon. I realized that I like the sun more, than all lunar. I had been afraid of the sun because it's hard to look at such a perfect shape. But, I asked Sara's paper fortune teller about when I'll conceive and it said something about a broken mountain. Then she lost the teller. I wonder if the teller knew it's own fate while it told us ours.
I;ve been waiting for this predicted hurricane. Last night, I sat outside my house at day change and spoke of how this hurricane wasn't good enough and a voice said, "I'm sorry, I'll get you a new one". And I liked that.
I caught a beautiful baby turtle who I named Suzanne after the song about the river. Gabriel says she's partial to me because in the canoe she sat on my bare foot for our three mile trip. They say painted turtles are hard to catch. She is a mere one fourth of my smaller-than-rain hands. I call her she, she, though, is a boy.
The sky looks like snow which would feel so nice in humidity. The sky is such a tease. I pray for volleys and a raspberry breeze, And soon I realize that the sky’s a tease.
I started living something that was once a given up opportunity. And now I need a tea bath for calming. Or a balloon to releasing. Or a voice for screaming.
I wish martyrs ate more cotton candy. I am sure they wouldn't have sacrificed themselves. Cotton candy and loud laughs.
