Do You Ever Begin A Project, Make Some Starting Steps (write Some Code, Opening Paragraph, Draw Some

At evening when I arrived - nowhere a thousand imaginations rose up in me like an enchantment I gave my hands hopelessly into it saw dusk graze itself blindly across the winter hills, blue as its heart and pitched myself into its apple where no arms may hold me but the echous ribbons of a long-lost past

The fog creeps in,

thick like breath

on a window,

the hills fold

into themselves,

and I am

somewhere else

while the red bridge

cuts through the mist

like a wound

that has yet to heal

I float above the debris

Freshly risen from the grave

Where moths gently flutter

And the worms quietly dance

At the rhythm of blue crotchets

Hanging from red green wing tips

Resting beyond the horizon

Where your brokenness waits

Behind a shattered mirror

I'm going to asphyxiate xdddd

An authentic experience of me, reading the Silmarillion for the first time, trying to imagine what Melkor looks like:

Me: If the Ainur can choose how their fanar appear, then I bet he'd go for something physically intimidating... Tall, then. Most likely wierdly white-gray pale, too...

Me: Long, dark hair... Dressed in black robes, ooh! What if they pool at his feet when he stands, so it's kind of like he's emerging from a puddle of darkness... and... hmm.

Me: Why does this sound... familiar? W-who does it remind me of...?

Me: ...wait.

I am so sorry.

Writing stuff when you don't have a full picture yet is fun.

Ah yes, the rumored gender, a rare and elusive sight

There is a hidden softness to the winter, though, like the underbelly of an old matted cat.

Fragile Animals, Genevieve Jagger

“I feel Tired and Lonely”

Everything sounds false and

Out of tune

I barely sleep anymore

And only with assistance

“I feel Tired and Lonely”

I really only had one person but that was enough

And now I live for myself

Cause I've got no one else

And I really just want to go home

To a place that no longer exists

Mouth full of silver,

a waning cresent smile shines

in the ink of night.

A life of commas and semicolons The pauses and hesitations of the ellipsis The catastrophic ending of paragraphs The solitude of the blank spaces And the freedom of the thought never written