an_exchange_of_feelings Doar In the old park, deserted in the frost, A while ago two shapes came drifting past. Their eyes have died, their lips become so weak That you can hardly hear a word they speak. In the old park, deserted in the frost, A ghost was reminiscing to a ghost. -Can you recall our ecstasy of long ago? -Why stir the memory? Why do you want to know? -Does your heart beat at just my name, as ever? Do9 you still see my spirit in your dreams? -No. Never. -O lovely days of speechless happiness When our mouths met!-Speechless? Perhaps it was. -How blue the sky was and what hopes we had! -Hope ran away to the black sky, defeated. So they walk on in the self-seeding grass With only night to hear them as they pass. Paul Verlaine (1844 - 1896) Trans. Alistair Elliot . 050809 ... unhinged there's something about the number three, odd and uneven. my lips have this habit of gluing shut. i stood in the 12th row by myself for most of the concert. the point was we were all going to be together and then our tickets got fucked and then you left me there alone to go get someone else and in the meantime the concert is over and i'm still alone. like i was standing alone while we were tailgating watching him drool over the other two chicks. relentlessly familiar, 'the friend' that watches him drool over other girls. which still reduces me to feeling ugly and unwanted. and i stood alone in the 12th row about 500 feet away from chris martin not even really able to enjoy it because it only extended my feelings of ugliness and unwant. and the cherry on top of the whole fucking thing was the ride home. while he yelled at you for not trusting him, i sat in the backseat watching him grab your hand and hold onto it like it was the end of the world. god, the words won't even come out right for how lonely and disappointed i am right now about everything in my life. and i stood in the 12th row alone and it was like a metaphor or something. 050809 ... unhinged . 170815 what's it to you? who go blather from