(no subject)
we were five six seven and her house had a creek out back where we tried to catch crayfish, tried to cross on the slippery slick rocks. the trees on the other bank were tall thin and papery green leaves and the air was crisp and cool and the sun was white and warm. the barn was red peeling off to greybrown and falling down. we sat on the window-seat and listening to scary stories on tape and my heart pounded and i was so afraid looking down the road, all sick with dread and utter knowledge that i would die that afternoon. it was so hard to fall asleep that night.
i want to write novels and novels of pictures. usually i am so character-focused but today i just want to throw characters and stories out the window and write pictures. i pick from other people's words like apple trees. i use pathetic similes. i am listening to the third eagle-eye cherry song i've ever heard and am enjoying it muchly. when my french teacher speaks in french it sounds like cherries. there is a heavy orange kitten lying on my arm and making typing rather difficult.
this is why i don't write so much anymore.
i want to write novels and novels of pictures. usually i am so character-focused but today i just want to throw characters and stories out the window and write pictures. i pick from other people's words like apple trees. i use pathetic similes. i am listening to the third eagle-eye cherry song i've ever heard and am enjoying it muchly. when my french teacher speaks in french it sounds like cherries. there is a heavy orange kitten lying on my arm and making typing rather difficult.
this is why i don't write so much anymore.