New girl; big school; fatherly hug; kiss goodbye; school gates; strange glances; judgmental stares; principal's office; warm welcome; front of class; new student introduction; prim teacher; unfriendly girls; hormone-pumped boys; boring books; lunch bell; unappealing food; filled tables; go outside; munch alone; lonely yard; bare trees; emerging figure; solitary boy; exchange glances; curious smile; warm handshake; introduces self.

Born on a bitter winter night
their mother screamed at the sight.
the doctor yelled "It isn't right!"
He left them alone in fright
for hours.

The sisters lay there,
one was rosy and one was fair
the only thing that they shared
is that they were connected
by the ends of their long red hair.

As they grew older their mother grew to love them
she couldn't bear to cut their hair
as it grew longer they grew apart
what only they knew is that they shared one heart
their blood flowed through their long red hair
they never thought to cut it, they wouldn't dare.

The sisters lived there
each loved the things
the other couldn't bear
the only thing that they shared
is that they were connected
by the ends of their long red hair.

One day the fair skinned sister met a man
while the rosy sister was at a news stand
they fell in love at first start
soon they were married and on their wedding night

The sisters lay there
one loved the man but the other didn't care
the only thing that they shared
is that they were connected by the ends of their long red hair

The man began to kiss his wife
he intended to perform the marriage right
but the rosy sister was still in sight
from far across the room their hair pulled tight
The man could not perform so he left her room
but he returned, very soon
he pulled out the scissors he pinched from the kitchen
and cut their hair down the middle

The sisters lay there
blood, poured from the ends of their hair
Now they both looked fair
In fact 'was the only thing that they shared

Except that they both had white hair

I like reading blogs because I know there are other people out there who find it easier to express themselves with a different medium, that is, through words. I admire and enjoy reading your works when you talk about just almost anything, and you have the talent to make the dull and mundane subjects sound highly intriguing and delightful. How you may string and construct your thoughts using bombastic and grandiloquent words or maybe simple, plain Jane ones shows your personality, the inner one that differs significantly from the one you carry when you are around your peers. I like how you talk about the world and your observations, about people you love; things you despise. Of course, I do admire the skill and perfection you put into your writings, so that they may express your thoughts and musings as accurately as possible. It is a highly sought after and admired skill, my dear writer. Don't you ever give up on that.

I'm just so sick of this.

Will this 'eye candy' make up for it?
Last I talked to you, it was Nov 20.

i like to write about things i don't understand, like love and loss. i like writing about gay people. i like writing about straight people. i like writing in the perspective of boys, and i like writing in the perspective of girls. i like writing in multiple perspectives.

i like to write soft-spoken, gentle characters but sometimes i foray into the minds of the rowdy. after a while, though, it stops mattering because the lines begin to blur and suddenly all my characters sound the same.

i like to use dependent clauses, and adverbs after synonyms of 'said'. i like to use ellipses. i like to ramble and contradict myself all in one paragraph.

i like writing. and i hope that i'm slowly making progress.

Bare limbs, she said.

“I like people with depth, I like people with emotion, I like people with a strong mind, an interesting mind, a twisted mind, and also someone that can make me smile.”

—	Abbey Lee Kershaw

I am supposed to be writing my novel, but yet here I am blogging to the existence of the virtual world. Hello, world out there!

I guess sometimes it's never too good to wonder.

I think it would be nice

Dear Mad Hatter,
Take me by my hand, and lead me through Wonderland!
Let me join your party, and let us be merry.
The Red Queen is harsh and rather mean, hard to please.
But I am sure that your syrupy words will soften her almost instantly,
And we shall have her tarts for tea.
So many sweet things, luckily diabetes hardly occurs in dreams.
And in the end, I wish I never had to leave Wonderland.
Shall we stay here forever?
Just you and me, and our company.

How it's waves crash magnificently

Monday's child is fair of face (narcissist)
Tuesday's child is full of grace (a little stiff)
Wednesday's child is full of woe (whatever)
Thursday's child has far to go (get out)
Friday's child is kind and giving (sucker)
Saturday's child works hard for a living (overachiever)
But the child that was born on the Sabbath Day
Is blithe and bonny and good and gay

I'm so angry
and, oh, how I cried
Why, oh, why do I have to be
Wednesday's child?

Austen, I present you a storytelling song.

I s'ppose every time I read your blog,

See? That is what I admire about you.

I enjoy reading Austen's writings.

Cheers, to keeping a promise made about five minutes ago!

Sad to say, I am leaving this blog.

"Hi, my name is Archie."

I realize I blog more often when I feel down.

If everyone were articulate, would the world be a better place?

I hope you have not deserted me as I have to you.

Banksy's unique little pet store like no other .


In other windows, things get a bit more bizarre.

McDonald's Chicken McNuggets sip barbecue sauce. A rabbit puts on her makeup. A CCTV camera nurtures its young.



Clearly, that this isn't your typical pet store.
So who's the "owner" of the Village Pet Store and Charcoal Grill at 89 West 7th Avenue?

Do you notice it rarely never rains on Wednesday mornings?
Maybe the sky just has its perfect timing. Or that God just wants me to work out.
Thunder and lightning play violent games in the sky above,
while I lay here in the duvets. Thinking.

It started at 5 this morn' and it might just start again-
the violent games they play, I mean.
Oh why is today such a sad day?
I shall cheer myself up with a long read from Lucy Christopher's Stolen.

I apologize for this dull post,
with no available photos and lack of describable adjectives.
My beloved inanimate object is gone, and will be back in two days time.
No dirty thoughts about the comment above, please. It's a sentimental moment.

Take care.

L'amoureuse

Il semble que quelqu'un ait convoqué l'espoir
Les rues sont des jardins, je danse sur les trottoirs
Il semble que mes bras soient devenus des ailes
Qu'à chaque instant qui vole je puisse toucher le ciel
Qu'à chaque instant qui passe je puisse manger le ciel

Les clochers sont penchés les arbres déraisonnent
Ils croulent sous les fleurs au plus roux de l'automne
La neige ne fond plus la pluie chante doucement
Et même les réverbères ont un air impatient
Et même les cailloux se donnent l'air important

Car je suis l'amoureuse, oui je suis l'amoureuse
Et je tiens dans me mains la seule de toutes les choses
Je suis l'amoureuse, je suis ton amoureuse
Et je chante pour toi la seule de toutes les choses
Qui vaille d'être là, qui vaille d'être là

Le temps s'est arrêté, les heures sont volages
Les minutes frissonnent et l'ennui fait naufrage
Tout paraît inconnu tout croque sous la dent
Et le bruit du chagrin s'éloigne lentement
Et le bruit du passé se tait tout simplement

Oh, les murs chagent de pierres,
Le ciel change de nuages,
La vie change de manières et dansent les mirages
On a vu m'a-t-on dit le destin se montrer
Il avait mine de rien l'air de tout emporter
Il avait ton allure, ta façon de parler

Car je suis l'amoureuse, oui je suis l'amoureuse
Et je tiens dans me mains la seule de toutes les choses
Je suis l'amoureuse, je suis ton amoureuse
Et je chante pour toi la seule de toutes les choses
Qui vaille d'être là, qui vaille d'être là

It seems someone conveid hope
Streets are gardens, I dance on the sidewalks
It seems my arms became wings
That in every moment that flies I can touch the sky
That in every moment that goes by I can eat the sky

The bell towers are tilted, the trees are in a nonsense
They collapse under the flowers on the most red of autumn
Snow doesn't melt anymore, rain is slowly singing
And even streetlights have an impatient sight
And even stones want to look important

Because I'm the lover, Yes I'm the lover
And I hold in my hands the only of all things
I'm the lover, I'm your lover
And I sing for you the only of all things
That needs to be here, that needs to be here

Time stopped, hours are changing
The minutes are freezing and the boredom makes wreck
Everything seems unknown, everything crunches under the teeth
And the noise of sorrow slowly goes away
And the noise of the past is just silent now

Oh, the walls change their stones
The sky changes his clouds
The life changes manners and dance mirages
It was seen was I told that destiny showed up
He looked like nothing, seemed to take everything
He got your look, your manner of speak

Because I'm the lover, Yes I'm the lover
And I hold in my hands the only of all things
I'm the lover, I'm your lover
And I sing for you the only of all things
That needs to be here, that needs to be here

The ringing sound of the alarm had woke him.

Have you once read your old posts and wondered:

The vast sky is pinkish red, with the puffs of clouds reminding me of cotton candy.

I'm sorry if my posts lack the charm they use to have.

Using most of the energy he had left, he thrust his weapon forward diagonally. It was finished. That was the final blow. He stood back to admire his artwork- the bloody mess splattered beautifully across the walls which were once pearly white. He dropped the blood-stained axe next to the chopped up, disfigured organism. Smiling proudly to himself, he headed off to the bathroom to clean up. The streaming water from the pipe soon filled the bathtub as he gently lowered himself in. Exhaling a relaxed sigh, he leaned back and let the morning occurrence play through in his mind.

She was about a hundred feet in front of him. Laughing cheerily, she continued talking on her cellphone, completely unaware of what was coming for her. Judging on what she was saying, she was on her way home to celebrate Valentine's Day with Henry, whom he supposes is her lover. Henry had everything planned out for them- specially prepared Valentine's dinner followed by a romantic evening of togetherness. A bouquet of red roses, red heart chocolates and other delights awaited her. With an "I love you, too.", she hung up. And that was when he decided to strike. Chasing after the victim this time had been slightly tricky; she had decided to go through the woods to escape her perpetrator. Nevertheless, the poor working lady had her heels on, and it wasn't long enough 'till he caught up with her. As like all his other victims, she put up a struggle before the last bit of breath escaped her. From then on it was easy.

He dragged her body and placed her comfortably in the boot of his car. His home wasn't far, just a couple of blocks down the road. Soon, it would be time to begin his masterpiece. He carried her body cautiously into his home, and placed her strategically against the white wall. He brought out his axe, recently sharpened, from the basement. Gripping the axe tightly with both of his hands, he swung his arms back and began. Slowly but surely, her insides began to splatter into a work of art.

He smiled at himself, thinking of what he had done. The working lady is his eighth piece of artwork, not the very best, but certainly not the worst. Her blood was his art, and her death was a mere small sacrifice to produce such an extravagant wonder. His house was now a museum, each room a canvas for his work. The past seven souls have gone on to a better place, and he felt that he had made their death worth it.

Slowly, his mind began to devise another plan. The next room to paint white, the next victim to strike. He wondered what Henry did that night.

A room full of pretty things, of happiness and memories and of psychological totems.

Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.


Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

When I break words down...

With this hand, I will lift your sorrows.

I'm gonna live there someday.

And I would be honoured if could receive handwritten, personal sentiments from you too,

Excerpt from the II letter to Jane, with extra edits included.