when_the_pen_is_the_body_and_soul devalis Here she was again, balled up in that small armchair, her notebook resting on her knees, writing furiously by candlelight. Yes, there was a lamp, but she liked the drama of the candle flickering across the page as she wrote. Next to the candle was a small peeled clementine, conveniently sectioned so that she had little trouble eating it with one hand, uninhibiting her right as she wrote. Those trademark headphones rested over her ears, Brahms Intermezzo in E-flat whispering into them. Her pen stopped as beautiful dark skinned fingers flashed within her mind, caressing ivory keys. The candlelight caressed her face just as those dark fingers had, once, and for the shortest moment... her own fingers trembled. The 'v' in the middle of "love" slashed upwards messily, slicing through the calm blue lines clean to match the slashes through her soul. She continued, sucking the bittersweet juice from the orange pulp that had been sugar just minutes before. Her pen could do all the crying for her. Her being was flush with scarlet ink and the only scars she cared to show dried brown upon the page. 040701 ... incoherent missed reading you nice 040701 ... Spare Change ... 040701 ... marked . 040701 ... u24 beautiful. 040810 ... pete . 040810 ... from now on . 041105 ... mourninglight . 041105 what's it to you? who go blather from