the earth's jest never putrefies. atlas revels in passing away -- to mollify the unpleasant burden that has crushed his bones for so long an epoch, to be reborn and have his calloused feet back on top of the titanic sphere -- while the princess remains apprehensive of doors, wary of every creak and click, and bleakly clings to her own mortal thread of life, the flimsiest of strands ever known. so
she expires.her soul murmurs honey-bitter, herb-sweet words for centuries into infinitely-slumbering, empty, unborn human bodies. mulishy, it waits for any reply -- the flutter of an eyelash, the tap of a finger -- until one arrives. it does not dilly-dally and seeps into the nostrils of a soft, small shell of an inbound life. sand from the hourglass falls again, and she grows in the spotlight, before the camera, atop places most only see in reveries. but her recollection of the past is defunct, and so when solitude props its icy limbs on her shoulder, through the film strip, she sees things she once deemed inexistent. 
at first they are petty -- phantoms gliding on the edge of her sight, tendrils of black in sparks and quivers... and then they grow. smiles and frowns folding in and out of crumpled script pages, and then hallucinations of colossal towers and obnoxious cackles and stolen tiaras, and then wisps of ethereal songs and things that never were.she knows naught about her borrowed soul and the princess who once owned it, so she keeps quiet. the ghosts of the prince, the princess and the witch crawl under and above and round the confines of her cranium, knock-knocking, moaning and groaning and pining to be remembered. and so one day, francelle wonders out loud: "who else hears it?" 
"hears what?" he asks (ignoring the sounds ringing in his own ears, sounds that seem frighteningly like his own), bringing her tea that came from the ground, where everything from the past thousand years -- green and animate; dark and dead -- lay, waiting, sulking. she shakes her head and with proficient and practical fingers brushes aside the voices and visions from the worn-out slush-flesh inside her skull."nothing," she says, but faintly, in case he doesn't really exist. "i think i just lost myself for a moment." his eyes disappear as he smiles, unconsciously ruminating when they would both turn to dust and sulk with the rest of the waning past. September 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009 March 2009 April 2009  Glut It Is Finished Age Crisis First Semester Neverland Ayoko To Chincha Of Excellence The Return Summer's Last Blood One Big Game For Fritz Doctor Recommended Doggone |
 Tuesday, December 02, 2008 bye As a matter of principle, I never cry. I don’t know how this all started. It simply became an unfaltering, deep-seated axiom. I never let salt run down my cheeks; I never let it rest at the corners of my mouth. I don’t like it because it’s hot. Most especially. I, as a matter of principle, prefer cold. I choose to be cold. I am iced. But nothing about that ordinary day was cold. It was blindingly clear, the sun madly ablaze, neurotic, fierce. Pink umbrella in my right hand, black phone on the left, a certain conversation, and not one hello. Then a paroxysmal murmur, then a ripple, then lots of ripples, concentric circles, then the first motions of a wave. The sea will be salty, we know that. But I don’t. As a matter of principle. You had the nerve to smile at me then. Just like when you told me that smashing oxygenated balloons across our bodies with plastic rackets made from China was playing badminton. Just like when you told me that you would give me a roasted cow when I am able to turn that applause into gold. Then the smile was gone. You finally let your body freeze, turning into chunks of cold, cold ice. Plastic turns into metals, but the roasted cows did not come. The sea has now immersed itself into the ocean bathed by the sun. My principles have betrayed me, it is not cold. I am not ice. You are unfair. I will miss you. As a matter of principle. SHOT @ 7:24 AM BY FRANCE 
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"what a coincidence," he hums, and when she looks at him bemusedly, a muscled arm reaches out for the cup. he sips from the brim and swallows water and herbs and burnt ashes of fallen men. "i'm lost myself." artlessly, as their eyes catch, they wonder how many people all over the recycled world are lost like them.alec alfred anna athina bea berbi bryan cari crystal danica davie doryll dothy gerald howard ice ishee izy john jopal josh jp july justin kaira katlab kate keem kenny kit km krish kyla lady louraine marius marni meklot mina phraensys pinktados reisa richie sara teetin tin trish 
a million other souls want out, and that is why humans dwindle, like the fragrance of rose amidst a field of jettisoned lives and emancipated final breaths -- all just as red and bloody. a million other souls know they are born in the wrong country, born in the wrong culture, reborn in the wrong era. a million other souls are blindly adrift, and so they writhe on their bellies, on the dust of their forebears, day after day (after day), awaiting the painful stint until their shadowy friend grazes them with his iniquitous, hungry blade.
hiss-hissing and hush-hushing, strips of film bitterly slither and struggle in disarray, rolling, tumbling over each other like rubber bones. run through once, rewound for a thousand years, replayed again. somnolent, they lay wearily, waiting to be made real -- the same cast, the same plot, the same intricacies like the corollary of silver behind every looking glass. 
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