Untitled VII

(Sunrise over Montana Bitteroot Pastures)

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subtle

slow

gently, gently

awake

my soul

let all your senses

come to life

as you breathe in

Holy Ghost

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my gracious silence

Greta vonderLuft

 1:39 PM

Hello.

I christened thee referencing Coriolanus and Harriet Vane. Also, I doubt anyone will read you save myself. You are a rabbit hole. A rant. A record.

I am want to live awake. To face fear. Conquer. Fail.

Thursday. Two and a half days of the second week of March left.

Mission:

  1. Write 500 words a day. That is 1500 smackeroos by Shabbat.
  2. Don’t break your running streak. (Since Tuesday.) If feasible run Hockinson Hill two more times.
  3. Complete Monday’s homework (Latin study: Ambrose +COA, finish Chapter 9 in Geometry and journal, Chemistry Chp. 4 study guide and test) to leave Shabbat free.
  4. Order a new journal of bullets.
  5. Barter outside work with Mum for Get Bendy + Get Split guides.
  6. Finish How to Read a Book.
  7. Turn in Flint report.

Mission Accomplished and Abandoned: March 19, 2016

  1. I’ve been writing a lot. Including my first raps. #likeagirl
  2. I’ve run so much this week. =)
  3. Yes! Everything except Chemistry which I put on hold to study for my Latin final.
  4. Yes. Judith Eliza Hunt, my beautiful tomato red Leuchtturm 1917.
  5. Contacted Elle and she is going to work out a sweet dealio for me! #pushingcomfortzonebringshappiness
  6. Didn’t pick it up all week. Did grab an awesome library haul. #booksbeforebros
  7. Didn’t finish Flint, but organized my English papers and talked to Mum about taking freelance classes with Mrs. Marsch. #yay

 

Now, I must go and translate a spot of Augustine.

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But maybe with another coffee it will be more tolerable.

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TFFN!

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lonely corner

 

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The cement is dusted, crusted with dead plants. Mutely they speak of life, of beauty, of decay. Dust we are. To dust we return. I push the sage door openly softly. I behold an opulent spider’s empire: swinging silk and bulging blood. The sensual sheika seduces innocents flies:forever ensnared. Never to flee, to fly again. Soft pink shelters death. Lady killers dream and die. Blue veined matriarch orchestrated her offspring: some she will devour, some will devour her.

A stale wind seeps through my skin. It lands on my tongue, ancient and frigid: hidden caverns and forgotten sepulchers. This sepulcher is stocked with powdered life and buried beans for some distant disaster. Or perhaps they will aid a dated god in his quest for paradise. Milk should flow richly, creamy not huddle ashamed.

This god is buried to buy bodies. Skinned, carved, devoured. Somehow-still alive? Torn by rusted staples and clumsy nails. Suffocated under running stone. Festooned with cotton candy. Mourned only by falling leaves. Trees ripped from rich earth and deep water shed their covering to cry. Left alone to drink stone. Darkness to devour their emerald eyes.

Deranged. Splinter decay. Rage ice. Shards splatter like tears.

They melt down

down

deep

into cement dust.

seedling.