A canvas half-un finished

david cho.

It's kind of like writer's block
in a new chapter. Fresh, but touched.
"Sometimes I think the air we breathe is mortal
And dies, trapped, in our unfeeling lungs." --Hine

It's pretty outside. Fluffy.
School so far has been reduced to idle card playing,
though Alvin and Serena did surprise me with a luvverly gift of thanks (+ x-mas):
Gas cash and chocolate of course, lol. :)
OH dear. I'm covered in woman fat. The stuff of babies. poochy poochy goo, smack baby tummy.'

so no yoga/pilates/belly dancing. either runs too late or there's class conflicts. And I can't go for 3 hours without food. HOWEVER, there is a newly added erotic pole dancing. And I'm old enough. *brave look*
but such an odd sod, lol.

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"Now is the winter of discontent,
Made glorious summer by this sun of York" --Bill Shakespeare (richard III)

and I have reached writer's block. not that I write, nor paint, nor do anything artsy.
I suppose I'm not worried, but I'd like to say I'm concerned.
Laying in bed. but to be frank, Gabriel... I'd like to hold your hand, hold you up.
A push, a smile. I miss the smell of Old Spice and the pocket in your shoulder. and I remember last year's talk in snow. Something's lacking, but not between us. I'm looking at Sir Timothy thinking what he'd do right now. A gallant pose. I see no levels - I see one.
Shared amongst everyone.
hope in the moon, the night, the sky. I love. penetrating through the night air.
please.
i try, (too) hard, my hardest.
we're young.