so, i'm not writing in this jornal any more.

it's a personal decision.

all of it comes down to me growing up, which has needed to happen for a long time.

so, that's it.

William Butler Yeats - He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven ( Read more... )

He couldn't trust in anyone but himself, and even that trust was begining to slip. His dreams, even his daydreams, had been so vivid as of late, that even he was starting to forget the line between fantasy and reality. He was believing things that no one had said, and recalling tales of feats he had never done. Most people thought he was lying, ( Read more... )

There is no beauty here ( Read more... )

My arm won't stop bleeding ( Read more... )

Maybe we should develop a Crayola bomb as our next secret weapon. A happiness weapon. A beauty bomb. And every time a crisis developed, we would launch one. It would explode high in the air - explode softly - and send thousands, millions, of little parachutes into the air. Floating down to earth - boxes of Crayolas. And we wouldn't go cheap, ( Read more... )

I understand now why i write when i'm depressed ( Read more... )

I hate everything that i hear coming from you ( Read more... )

So i now have a LJ (Thanks Amy ( Read more... )