April is for indecisive clouds and letters to the past, for discarding those imaginary eggshells I’ve been walking on and opening windows, even if I let the moths in. I am kindling the flame in...
For she is too fond of old fashioned things, loves only what has been replaced by common sense and progress. It takes a hundred years for a mere object to gain it’s soul, age and beauty, love t...
Sending postcards in lieu of one’s heart.
And when she found something completely unbearable, she simply forgot it. That was her greatest power, forgetting. For nothing in the world can trouble you once it no longer exists, and what is the p...
Model & Processing: thelostprincess Photography: sabatomic.com
She considered the book, it’s dust jacket slightly ripped and cracked like the skin of some ancient beast. She considered it as one considers the distance between two rocks and whether they can...
Everything tastes of violets today, of memories and the too long shadows that fall when one approaches silence. I’ve been walking backwards, hopscotch, over the cracks in the pavement (which op...
I am a thread too slender, To suspend all this reality.
Days spinning by like pinwheels and each one leaves an afterimage, sunburnt, on my eyelids whose thin veils do nothing to bring the night closer, or shut the world out. Drawing monograms on the back ...
kisses xxx
December 25th. Cut holes in old books, like the one in my heart where the snow should be and the holly berries and the robins coming down to eat from my hands, starved by the winter as I am starved o...
I am so terribly guilty of living in memories, but it is easier than daydreams because there is no waiting for them to come true (and it gets harder each year to be sure that they will.)
She said that dying was not like falling asleep, it was more like waking up for the first time, and being so awake that it hurts. I never write down my dreams, I’m afraid it will encourage them.
Of course, all I really want for Christmas is to go back. (Been dreaming of London every night for three weeks and wondering when it will snow.)
I am reading too much in a vain effort to make the words come back. Reading of burning girls and betrayal, and boys who watch through window panes as everybody dies. The March’s History for a d...
My little heart thieves.
for brave girls who make friends with the beasts in the closet and the monsters under the bed.
draco dormiens nunquam titillandus for meghan. x
It is still cold enough at night to curl my toes and drink hot cocoa and wonder, if I woke at midnight, the witching hour, if I might just be able to step through to the land of always-winter from th...
Secrets are the only real magic anymore. What one knows that nobody else does. What one sees as they blink their blind eyes behind pigeon glasses. Gaps in the clouds, cracks in pavement, pauses in a ...
chasing sunbeams with sabrina in my new favourite dress.
Dear N.W. You will be pleased to hear the there are still a family of rabbits in her garden, they are living beneath the roots of an old tree which has grown so as to bend the garden gate. The wyster...
“Your problem,” the doctor began, laying down his stethoscope “Is in being too real.” The carriage clock on his desk chimed nine. “Your heart-aches, the dreams, memory l...
Have you ever been in a large forest and seen a strange black tarn hidden deep among the tall trees? It looks bewitched and a little frightening. All is still—fir trees and pines huddle close and sil...
From goldenstone the shy sun fills the vale with swathes of light and the mistle thrush, her song catches in my throat for it is all as the words climbed aloft and made true. Some things are real my ...
I’m always inside when the wind howls. Wolf of the great world. I can not bear to have it whistle through my ears and around my fragile skull, it makes me sleepy and silences the sweet voices t...
And he came to me, star browed and milk breathed, all gentleness and yet as tall as I was with those great, heavy eyes. He searched my pockets for sugar cubes and I laughed, which startled him. Neith...
She was not sure if it was the stone, or some fey quality of the light but everything was golden. Gilt lamposts and the crown of Isis, molten in the canals and all the birds sung like wire nightingal...
‘…Oxford, where the real and unreal jostle in the streets; where North Parade is in the south and South Parade is in the north, where Paradise is lost under a pumping station; where the r...
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