All brilliance is fickle and fleeting...apparently.

There are cracks in my skin. They chase each other along the heel of my foot.

I want to say it's where i stow something secretly beautiful, there in the crevices that save their grace for asphalt. I won't.

It's hard to find a rhythm now to these posts of mine because i've occasionally written them in the grips of a MOoD and here, later, I find a struggle between pretenses rather than safety within any one. I'm done explaining and i'm done sitting for minutes at a time searching for the most correct of words. This is not what i came here for.

Recall you previous posts? If there are an abundance of words rooted in "beauty", they doth speak of my obssession. I'd like to fully write it down here (or anywhere for that matter, don't you be gettin' premature on me) at some point because the definition haunts me with all of the vague nothings it seems to represent. The nothings that are worth dying for, and other things too. Well, i'm bound to be proven something eventually.

By the way, when a suicidal person tells you that she loves you so much that she'd willingly die for you, (say now, what made me think of this?) maybe you should ask her if it's you she lives for. It'd be swell to hear it without the sting of reprimand.

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/29/04)