I just dropped like $80 I don't have on books I know the plots of *sigh*

Why hello there, denizens of the internet. I haven't written in a while - well, that's a lie, I haven't posted in a while. How've you been? I hope this finds you well. Personally I (finally) find myself unburdened by the stresses of exams. I think I think I think I pulled it out and passed three out of four, and that's good enough for me.

I don't know about you but I find I write best seeing the sunrise from the wrong side. Just drifting off to sleep. This morning, though, I woke up and I looked through my notebook and I had scrawled in big, ornate letters "REVOLUTION GIRL STYLE NOW" - that's not mine - opposite "I'M SO FUCKING FUTURE". That's not mine, either. I don't remember writing either one. Underneath them both I have an honestly totally terrible attempt at creepypasta that I want to revisit: creepy? It doesn't have to be dark and wet and slithery to be unsettling. I scrapped everything except for one sentence ("They smile wide, to the molars.") now I just have to figure out what to do with it. I hate that, being on a hot streak and then going back to edit and realising that you have nothing of consequence. So here, I'm dumping half-finished TERRIBLY PRETENTIOUS PROSE because loling at bad writing? ALWAYS FUN. But, um, this is going to get long, is there any way to truncate this? Someone internet-savvy, hit me up ok?

Here is a poem, to start off the festivities. It's John Masefield's. It's called Sea-Fever.

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

That was nice. Now for the lulz:

This is on a page marked {SLOW ME DOWN}. I hope you enjoy? Oh, here-



Here I stand, a little glimmer in a world that's gold, quick and quiet and cold. There's salt floating in the breeze and on my lips from when you were last seen here, when you said (hello)goodbye and fled the night.

(Last seen here. Wearing a trenchcoat belted tight at the waist and a scarf. You're so cliched- wanted for-)

There's a poster on the wall of my grandfathers study that says KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON. There's one, more battered, that says FREEDOM IS IN PERIL. And then - directly below and to the left, half-hidden behind a corner of his desk - one with big letters, italics, that says LOOSE LIPS SINK SHIPS. If you ask him he'll tell you about them. He'll tell you everything he knows. He's a lot like you in that respect, only he knows no secrets, only tragedies.


And that's where it ends. It has written on top "7/10/2009, 3:14 am". I don't remember October 7, 3:14 a.m. I don't remember where this was going, or why it's called "Slow me down", or what the point was. I just know that it isn't finished. I don't like unfinished things. But here, on the page right beforehand, there's half a story marked {WE SING, WE SING}, and dated 3/9/2009. That's how out of practice I've been. It's pathetic. Have that one too:


Here, look closely: there are words looped loose about these wings. A thought as I fall: a hummingbird cracks its shell and greets, for the first time,

the joyous day.

Across the ocean, the moon hangs, full and stubborn, above the horizon. For all her grace, the gentle night refuses, for once, to dim.
Watch- carefully-

a shooting star.

.
In Glasgow, my love turns to the sun, as ever pleased and surprised; as if there could be no greater gift in the world than that the sun rose once more, just for him.
But who am I?

perhaps it did.

.


and once again it ends abruptly there. So I will end this here, because this is not even the place, but I wanted to contribute to this lovely affair and had nothing of worth to say.

And I'll leave you, my loves, with this thought: it's 9:48pm, November 17th, in Melbourne. It is warm. It is two hours and twelve minutes until MyKill's birthday, and tomorrow I will sit quietly in the library with an ipod, and a pen, and maybe some Machiavelli, and I will make him a mixtape. For now, though, my feet are bare, and my eyes are heavy, and I am ill; but I plan to travel to the countryside, find Leo, and settle in until morning.

I always miss the meteors; this time, honestly, will be different.