Letters to Crushes. Leaves in the Bushes. See the stars in the navy universe sky smile down at you.

Top New Year's Resolutions.

Get fit.
Lose weight.
Enjoy life more.
Quit drinking.
Get organized.
Learn something new.
Get out of debt.
Spend more time with the family.
Help others.
Save money.
Get a better education.
Reduce stress.
Take a trip.
Volunteer.
Spend more time with friends.
Start loving yourself.
Spend less money.
Become more spiritual.
Find a soulmate.
Spend less time on the computer.

Learn how to play a musical instrument.
Finish school.
Stop doing drugs.

I want to have light vision. See the night landscape in navy and gold. Lurex throw over my shoulders, shivering in the wane orange the sun shines down upon me. I find so many things beautiful in a way I can't even describe. Should I spend eighty dollars on a lurex cardigan with gold foil trimmings, should I buy a cake for my sister's birthday? Should I this, and I should not that. The sky isn't the limit, as we all are led to believe. January approaches and I need to get a grip on myself. The concrete sidewalks beckon after a particularly lazy day at school. Khaki uniform, eyelet pullover and bright orange leather suitcase that lies open on the floor beside me. Sigh and look into the open thicket with bright, hopeful eyes. Dimmed by the sunlight of day, my heart weakens at the thought of tomorrow.

I see televisions at best buy, rolling stones in glass-panelled windows. I stop at one and gaze inside, my breath fogging up the glass. My reflection is like a ghost; purple, and vague. Plastic bags in the dumpster, peering over the fire escape, hair hanging about my face like curtains. I dream of green hills and satanic cows, snow that never comes. In two days it shall be Christmas Eve, and my room is bare like a baby's bottom. But it's hey okay, because I am just ridding myself of all the memories that have kept me cycling backwards for the past four years. It's pointless mopping up spilled milk or moaning over curdled cheese. Too long too much for Too many Days. Sweeping the dust under the carpet no longer works, neither do cardboard lists printed on aluminium foil and fake instax photos on the walls. The sparkles settle on the sette, my day here is done.

Fridays are now spent aboard the festive ship with guns a' blazing and dolphins alongside. Christmas is approaching and I hear the wind howling with the scent of nutmeg and hot chocolate in the air. The time of year with silver bells and white hopes avant.

sv 'm thank you very much I'm cold, sorceress, coveted. Disregard of authority, complicity. You are beneathe me, six feeth, why should I not? Reasons like leaves, falling.

Chanel vernis #001 in Jade. Does it tell you what my heart is adorned with now? Red lips and cornrowed hair, side parts. I hate my job. Infestation, uncontrollable rage. It consumes me with blind anger, hazes, burrows. I hate it. It feels dank, like a brick wall, almost like bracken. Grey, colourless, monotonous. Death, consuming.

Today I'm not gonna' hide no more , no no. It's the little things that make a difference. Eye bags, tea leaves at the bottom of a cup. What I perceive as blatantly ugly might not be so to others. A simple circle fallen off the heart of a necklace could also serve to accessorise one's finger. For now I will head out into the dreary dawn and hope that birds of paradis will flock down and bless me. Cave Canis.

Because sometimes We just Wanna' fuck The world.

Urban renewal. It's a dream, no? Then why don't you just renew my mind? I feel old inside, all shrivelled and gross like an aged leaf. I need so many things, feel like I should be plugged up to multiple machines squirting obnocious liquids into my veins just to keep me awake, pumping life back into my deadened arteries, bringing spruce of life into my brain. I can't keep alive anymore, this is draining me, slowly slowly surely but surely. Today I put on my new tights and lied to myself that hey, I felt like a totally new person. New style, new hair, new clothes, definitely new perspective. But suddenly I look around and all I see is a haze of pain and faces that I can't ever read. I'm not me. I'm this totally blurred and grey image and phantom that believes that change is possible, when it obviously it isn't. I'm not gonna' pretend. I'm not even gonna' try to pretend. Next year will be helleth of hell, and we all know it. For some it'll be an all-you-can-fuck buffet, and for some it'll be the darkest depths of shitty hell. For me I have no idea what's it's gonna' be, but I know it's not gonna' be easy. Peasy like the clouds in heaven, or the down on riverside geese. If I could go back.

I wouldn't.

"I'm on the road to oblivion the pathway to hell. me myself and i

“ I can tell by the way you take your infusion, you’ve spent some time in a mental institution. tea and thorazine, andrew bird

My back arches and in the twilight, feral cat sounds echo from the insides of dark alleys. My fngers explore the hopeless pages of a book, my mind is elsewhere. I sigh, contemplate the surroundings. I wonder, maybe if I worked and plundered harder something good would happen; something other than this deep hole I've somehow led myself into.

The clouds are black.

Hear the printing press against my head, I breathe in the deep acrid smell of the ink they use. Letter by letter the ink jets across the parchment in a flurry of metal and pointed tips. Words press into the scroll as if tattooed, I feel each alphabet press into my skin as if it was I, and not the paper, that was being art-ed. I turn and around me is the sky, I am on a cloud, with naught but my typewriter, and my demons.

Pray hold my hand and tell me how beautiful I am. Tell me how lustrous my hair is. Whisper in my ear how the rustle of my dress makes you feel. Whisper how my skin burns beneath your finger tips, cry. For my knees burn and knock together at your breath, for my eyes and ears redden at your touch. O'! Entomb me.

It's actually midnight and I feel the ground quaking beneath my pawed feet. I am nervously clawing the ground, running my fingers through my hair. As I wait, I wait, I wonder. Because we once were, we now could be. Or maybe as we were once, we now can not be. I think wildly should I wait under the firs for you long enough, I'd hear your cloven hoofs coming towards me. I tremble as I envision your hand on my shoulder behind closed lids. A breath on my neck. The snow drifts up and swifts across my shoe. My teeth chatter and I see you. I see you.

Today I want ginger curls and a chanel t-shirt. Tomorrow I'm going to want chocolate nails and black lips. And in the future, silver box hats and paper shoes.

"You're absolutely out of your tree"And I said"Yes and I'm awfully sad about it, it was really a very nice tree".

It's not easy to think about lush velvet curtains and rich fur rugs when you're living in a dead-end apartment in a dead end town next to a dead-end forest. But that's what I want. I want to think about pink walls and floaty chiffon curtains. I want to wistfully and morosely lament that I have plywood floors that need buffing every good weekend. I want to wail that my beautiful persian carpeting bears the dust from my ivory lamps. I want to proudly yet humbly show off my chandelier, to warmly experiment with my induction cooker and stainless steel pans. I want to live out of a high bed with an iron back, velvet brocade sheets and lush silk hangings. The canopy would be decorated with intricate gold and red thread, the walls mahogany panelling, the floor adorned with a fluffy alpaca rug. There shall be a swing, made of pink wood and fine gold chain. There I shall sit through the balmy summer evenings sipping chai tea and savoury lattes, while burying my nose in the latest thriller or mystery novel. The front yard is brimming with pretty azaleas, green peas and tomatoes. I have a private garden where the red robin christianed Bert sings his tunes out at the top of his voice. The birdhouse is yellow and spacious, and Bert soons makes a home out of it with his new wife Victoria. There they will have tiny red fledgelings, whom I shall call Gardenia, Tulip and Bing respectively. My house shall be warm and inviting, a place of comfort and solace. My house is like my tree. It is supporting and firm. During Hallows Eve I will stand on my porch and smile while handing out gummy bears and gum balls to little children. The wind will whip through my hair and whistle through my chimney. The leaves shall roll across the sidewalk, and I will laugh.

Back when the balloons were still pink and the sidewalks grew cold, you held my hand and drew me closer.

Under the fierce moonlight I see you against my door. Tomorrow is going to be a day of endless possibilities. I'm familiarising myself with people from the long-lost past, taking chances, leaps off cliffs.. into oceans. Because sometimes things don't go as planned. Cream melts off the ice, caps slide off the sweaty foreheads of little boys. And maybe tomorrow will be like that. But I will tog myself out in my polka-dotted, knitted cardigan best and keep the water running. It's crouching tiger, really not hidden dragon.

Are you scared? This forest of lost sheep and pine trees. Cones, rods endless strings of needles. Rule number #1: Always put rushes in your hair.

I can see everything now that the rain is gone. My eyes fade into the day. My head is clear above the clouds. I see your balloons in my chimney. Your sneakers on my front porch.

Everyday I wonder about summer and think about how you must be faring over those wide open seas. And then I let myself pour a cup of tea and settle down in old wicker chairs to mope and think about all the times I let your silky tresses cloud my vision, let those stunning eyes of yours burn into my soul. The sun has ridden his carraige deep over the mountain tops. And I grieve.

Ghosts in the bathroom. Hear me Speak. Your voice like paper planes in the wind.

Cashmere and Cigarettes. Just the little things. Rolling in bales of hay smelling its sweet scent, getting my hands dyed red from the tresses. If today would mark the beginning of something it certainly marked the end. Roasting chickens on spits and fanning flames it was then we bid goodbye to our lives as we have known it for two years. Next year we would be trenched knee deep in cooties and cigars, too busy being nurds and having mash for lunch. It's like winter after a fall I miss you all green eyes red heads brown hair. Good or bad we've been through so much. The trees can be felled by rain and sleet but eternal shall we be. Caffeine and endless bottles of cheap perfume we'll walk through this, we'll get through this. Four zero Eight, my love.

Sometimes I want to run away like Igby Slocumb.

A place where it's okay to sit all alone in the dark thinking about nothing, where the television is broken and sometimes the only light comes from lit cigarettes and stars. It's okay to write on the walls too. Write your lists, your words, your quotes, your thankyou notes.

"Thankyou for the sleep and the smiles, for the smokes and the cereals, the milk was off but the heat was on. In short, misery loves company and it thanks you for your time." In eyeliner, on the west facing wall, under the fairy lights.