I miss my US high school days. It's so weird saying it and actually meaning it at the same time. I miss sitting on my own, tucked in a corner, in the school bus. I miss doing nothing in the library on 6th period. I miss reading manga and everything else inside that room that I almost probably burned to the ground. I miss going home from school in my mom's car or in the bus, just watching Fall develop and disappear from inside the windows. I miss being wholly anonymous to everyone. I miss the mind-numbingly easy school work; it healed me. The whole thing healed me. And now I think parts of my lifestyle are piquing at the tiny, tiny scab left.

It's Sundays like these when I regret coming back. Not for the company, or for the experience, or for any of the awesomeness that have transpired these past year, but for the kind of scraping it can do to the soul.

...no reported data yet

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the foolish little girl is clutching on to her little bar of chocolate, unable to eat it. damn this illness.

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Usui. Usui. Usui. How absurd is it when you start falling for a drawing?

i don't think i have anything to be afraid of.

**

I feel like i'm floating. hovering above the ground, unstable.

It's kind of like a bruise. You tap it and then momentarily weaken.

It's a lot like a bruise, actually.

**

Another post off to Chalk Zone. Off to the garbage bin of unexpressed creativities. I wish I wouldn't forget that easily.

Haji.

**

Of wild guesses and laugh trips and shifting ones weight against another and more laughter and more laugh trips about the guesses; of dissection of certain scenarios and trying to make peace with it all and being chilled to the bones by the stories of other people and the stories of their own lives and loves; of trying to stay away and control the impulses the glances the electricity pent up just dying to leave and explode and stream its way onto other people; of music and birthday parties and jackets and more music and booze and talking and stars and cars and girls and feelings and other girls and their feelings and walking on eggshells.

always walking on eggshells.

I swear I had another title for this post.-.-'

**

I've done something terrible. Fiona Apple said it clearly in 3 minutes. Purgatory is not for sins of this magnitude and force. I'm so sorry.

I want to stay in that room for years; just listen to them playing for themselves, lost in it. They makes me want to sing.

Over time we develop our own conception of what is Beautiful. Mine are long, outstretched, veinous arms for trees; crunching gravel-music; and the mists of bouncing raindrops that make cars glow on stormy nights. It's all so dreamy - 'dreamy' in the sense of hazes and spacing out, lost in the 2 second opportunity of the moment.

And so Beauty is closely intertwined with the Whimsical, and the Whimsical is what makes us want to look outside the window from the inside of a moving car. or from the porch of a raining wake. or from the outer fringes of a casket.

The more I stare, the more convinced I am that, any moment now, her eyes will fly open from inside and look at me. But I can't help but stare. I am the moth. I am always the moth. Always attracted to the flame.

**

Lou Taylor Pucci is like a young, wide-eyed version of Gary Oldman mixed in with a little bit of Jackson Rathbone.

**

Sometimes it pays. It doesn't pay well. But it pays. And sometimes, in this economy, and in this world, isn't that what matters?

Give me a jacket.

**

I find myself in that very strange position where I never in my wildest dreams thought I'd be in. Because every ounce fight against it, every ounce knows the outcome, but all the same, some transcendant piece manages to convince you that it's one of those mistakes-you-have-to-make and at the very same time, all those little ounces are begging to make it. just because.