a leaf on the wind
A lot of other, deeply private things happened on that leaf.The wind pushed us all into the last time we were ever happy, and the first, again and again.
We'd built a whole restaurant on that leaf, and in no metaphorical sense. There were round tables with three or four chairs at each, all bolted down so that they looked like they'd been organically moved about. Truth was, no one ever came for food, except when our families or new friends showed up to support us- and then, they all sat at awkward-positioned points from their tables. Already forced to deal with the erratic swinging of the leaf, and the occasional capsizing, this made the dining experience
less
than
ordeal,
though there was no one to write reviews but us, and we mostly stuck to obtuse and alienating metaphors.
We didn't even have a kitchen.
The leaf moved us on a path through the sky which mirrored the cycling of the moon, in a sense that only a dying Chinese librarian could have penned, in metaphors so obtuse and alienating still that it would take over two-thousand years to not understand the same way.
But that's probably the point, based on how our leaf moved.
This is a really thin metaphor for something I haven't really thought out, and sort of a journal and sort of a search for validation. I want someone to nod their head at me, numine, let me know that I'm doing alright.Because I don't know where Sarah Holmes lives.
And I can't draw.
And I don't even want to be a therapist.
I know a man who said that everyone is vampire, in some capacity.
I don't think he knows how relieved I was to hear that.
The shadow is the seat of poesy.
be mindful
of that.
A lot of other, deeply private things happened on that leaf.The wind pushed us all into the last time we were ever happy, and the first, again and again.
We'd built a whole restaurant on that leaf, and in no metaphorical sense. There were round tables with three or four chairs at each, all bolted down so that they looked like they'd been organically moved about. Truth was, no one ever came for food, except when our families or new friends showed up to support us- and then, they all sat at awkward-positioned points from their tables. Already forced to deal with the erratic swinging of the leaf, and the occasional capsizing, this made the dining experience
less
than
ordeal,
though there was no one to write reviews but us, and we mostly stuck to obtuse and alienating metaphors.
We didn't even have a kitchen.
The leaf moved us on a path through the sky which mirrored the cycling of the moon, in a sense that only a dying Chinese librarian could have penned, in metaphors so obtuse and alienating still that it would take over two-thousand years to not understand the same way.
But that's probably the point, based on how our leaf moved.
This is a really thin metaphor for something I haven't really thought out, and sort of a journal and sort of a search for validation. I want someone to nod their head at me, numine, let me know that I'm doing alright.Because I don't know where Sarah Holmes lives.
And I can't draw.
And I don't even want to be a therapist.
I know a man who said that everyone is vampire, in some capacity.
I don't think he knows how relieved I was to hear that.
The shadow is the seat of poesy.
be mindful
of that.
