tell me.

tell me again.

tell me everyday a million times until it makes sense and is fair and good and didn't happen.

look what I found, now that I posted that:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/78993837@N00/4992500462/sizes/z/in/photostream/

still tempt me.

It's times like these. In the middle of the night when I'm tired but restless and the moon filters across the floor that I wish I had a huge house to rattle around in. All by myself. Just me and the silence and the settling and the night. And maybe someone to run across. Sometimes. Maybe.

And will I take the calendar down from my wall without ever having turned the page?

I want to dive up into the sky and splash around for a little while and then just float and look back up at the earth and all the trees pointing down at me and all the people laying looking right back up at me.

old thoughts.

Check this out!

http://superheroes.rootsandshoots.org/video.asp

My friend Tiombe is the one wearing the flowered shirt.

‎"The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferries wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color. Often at night there is lightning, but it quivers all alone. There is no thunder, no relieving rain. These are strange and breathless days, the dog days, when people are led to do things they are sure to be sorry for after."

"No," I said. "One is most eloquent when there is nothing left to say." And I walked away from her and shut the door quietly between us before the silence could follow me into the hall.