...from old lovers to ancient impressions, we hope.

How many times undone can one person be, as they're careening through the facade of their favorite fantasy? - Ani D.

Ran merely through a person of my past--'tis it, and simply.  How is it that we can think of one another in this way?  As impressions made subtly upon our lives, rather than as holders divine of a life untold to us?  Still?  Or from now on.  My eyes are tugged curiously to the potential of these thus-far daydreams, but are already denied, seeing from out this me-shaped filter.  "Alas" or "Hallelujah!", and there be no alternative.

The unmoving breeze would otherwise be scented with incense.  My desk chair squeaks inexplicably beneath me, without the encouragement of my restlessness; with the conviction of a creature beyond the promise of loss.  I play recklessly with strange combinations of words, really having nothing but convoluted anticipation to confess.  I'll write again when I remember how much there should be to say -- while we figure we still can, of course.

Faretheewell folks,
-Talthea (9/16/08)

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