[ 22 too much ]
The world's a strange sort of black and white sometimes. Maybe it's just me. Me, collage of quirks, quilt of guilt, half robot, half character, half incalculable, runny-nose-mess, prose-less, me. Longing on the corner waiting for the bus with not enough warm clothes. Longing to capture and express and confess and break free. To walk into a room full of poets instead of scientists every once in a while. To walk into a room and fall in love. And not even worry about the way things break.
I have these two short stories I've been meaning to write... for about 3 years now. So far I only have the titles: "Sunday at the Lovestruck Maniac" and "You Say Tomato, I Say Gazpacho". For some reason or another I just haven't had the attention span (damn you stumbleupon) to actually write something cohesive. But I swear to... whoever it is that's in charge of these things that I'm gonna finish them before I turn 23. |
