"I saw on your face such a curious grin...
...As I let go your hand
I was desperate to hold you again
But you're sinking so deep in the water
Outsmarted myself and so easily gave up what I wanted -
Winter by morning..."
Yesterday was cool. Yesterday was writing and sewing and thunderstorms and tidying the flat whilst waiting for the internet-man not to appear. Then in the evening there was a Wolf and a Tori Amos concert. We liked yesterday.
We're not convinced by today.
Apparently I can't draw - Hunter's currently looking like a really third-rate eighty's ethnic superhero. This doesn't please me.
Also I've had an email back from the weird job people saying 'write us a pitch for this film if you want an interview' and I haven't the first fucking clue how. The film's about rave culture which isn't exactly my forte (hah - now I feel very sheltered and middle-class). And lastly the attached letter was addressed to 'dear annabelle' which makes me think (as if I hadn't noticed from looking at their shitty website) that this company might be rather shoddy. Either that or I impressed them so little they don't care what name they put on my letter.
Wah.
*tries to get out of the way of the rising tide of neurotic wibble*
Have you ever had a day when you think you must be made entirely of masks, half truths and lies? And you pull off all the facades to try to find the core... and there isn't one? There are just scores of masks and flimsy skewed layers of gods know what all over the floor...? All right, so the likelyhood of anyone else having a day like that is slim I suppose. Bleh.
Oh for the love of fekk - what is wrong with me and my brain?
Hello neurons - I have to be functional and proper and not pointlessly idiotic, please. I have to get a job and an income and useful things like that. Stop fekking around, stop eyeing up the scalpel.
I was desperate to hold you again
But you're sinking so deep in the water
Outsmarted myself and so easily gave up what I wanted -
Winter by morning..."
Yesterday was cool. Yesterday was writing and sewing and thunderstorms and tidying the flat whilst waiting for the internet-man not to appear. Then in the evening there was a Wolf and a Tori Amos concert. We liked yesterday.
We're not convinced by today.
Apparently I can't draw - Hunter's currently looking like a really third-rate eighty's ethnic superhero. This doesn't please me.
Also I've had an email back from the weird job people saying 'write us a pitch for this film if you want an interview' and I haven't the first fucking clue how. The film's about rave culture which isn't exactly my forte (hah - now I feel very sheltered and middle-class). And lastly the attached letter was addressed to 'dear annabelle' which makes me think (as if I hadn't noticed from looking at their shitty website) that this company might be rather shoddy. Either that or I impressed them so little they don't care what name they put on my letter.
Wah.
*tries to get out of the way of the rising tide of neurotic wibble*
Have you ever had a day when you think you must be made entirely of masks, half truths and lies? And you pull off all the facades to try to find the core... and there isn't one? There are just scores of masks and flimsy skewed layers of gods know what all over the floor...? All right, so the likelyhood of anyone else having a day like that is slim I suppose. Bleh.
Oh for the love of fekk - what is wrong with me and my brain?
Hello neurons - I have to be functional and proper and not pointlessly idiotic, please. I have to get a job and an income and useful things like that. Stop fekking around, stop eyeing up the scalpel.