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(no subject) [Dec. 31st, 2004|12:11 am]
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(no subject) [Dec. 23rd, 2004|05:06 pm]

No, nothing [Dec. 22nd, 2004|01:59 pm]
4.00 GPA
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(no subject) [Dec. 21st, 2004|02:41 am]
I feel sick.
Liquid gold is spilling from my split open head.
Now there's no one to love me.
There is no one to tell me that it will be alright.
Everything will never be alright in my life.
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Blanche [Dec. 20th, 2004|07:37 pm]
Today is my last day as a blonde boy.

Tomorrow is the very first day of winter.

I've heard that at times a person's hair will turn white after they have endured a traumatic experience.
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Anorexia Nervosa, Bulimia Nervosa, would you like a rose sir? [Dec. 20th, 2004|07:32 pm]
O come dear, please, do make me well again.
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Ballet [Dec. 17th, 2004|04:13 pm]
I will be dreaming lucidly of using my hands to madly convey my lusts of the flesh. I will moan and ejaculate assertions of beauty aimed to seduce, and thus reap what youth has brought to fruition. My collar will become damp with my passion and tears of longing, and thus wilt like a flower in sin...before being hastily removed from my young, pale, slender neck - in a fit. I gasp. Help me for I know not of how to help myself. Calm me with a kiss...It is imperative that you touch me! I implore you!

You must touch me...
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(no subject) [Dec. 17th, 2004|03:03 pm]
I am, now.
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1966 - The year he left. [Nov. 17th, 2004|08:26 pm]
My French instructor, Monsieur Boag, is the only man I've ever found myself feeling beneath. He is the only man I've met who I could feel is my father. Though, I do not feel that I need to rise above and overcome his interpreted superiority. I feel it's something... I feel it's something I could live aside and glean much from, a love I'll never feel. He is french, and attractive for a graying fellow above 50. He has pouting lips, a perfect hairline; his hair is always parted at his left near the middle of his brow. He posseses a rounded french chin and a long jawline. He has calm blue eyes, and a smile that has qualities of childlike mischief or astonishment. He is clean shaven. I'm not sure if he tucks in his shirt, days he does, days he doesn't. He is of average standing, as tall as I, possibly less possibly more. When seated infront him, though, he is a statue - like that of neoclassical design. He has seen the world twice over and knows of its history, and many of its languages - knowing them backwards and forewards. His knowledge spills over and overwhelms all but me. I pray for his company.

We had a heated french session on this day. It was full of sophomoric banter and smart-allic comments. I, for once in a thousand days was involved in this kind ritual. Monsieur Boag was full of humorous spirits, it was most likely a result of a woman. He is french.
He broke a piece of chalk in his writing of simplistic sentences aimed to exhaust our most limited vocabulary. Complete with several clauses inducing the use of 'que.'
He laughed as he surveyed the splintered fragment on the tile floor, "They don't make chalk like they used to."
I jested, "What do you mean... with lead?"
He endearingly called me a smart-allic, smiling.

After school I waited, resting on a bench with crossed legs and my hands on my knees. I waited, and waited. I ran my fingers through my hair randomly and caressingly. A group of adults passed infront of me, I recognized one man and jestured a greeting. As soon as I had done this I felt a hand on my shoulder, enveloping it to the clavicle. A strong hand, and I looked up to see him gazing down upon me like I was his only son. I was astonished and ejaculated a timid greeting and he smiled and continued with his company, not saying a word.
I may never forget that moment.
I felt like I wasn't a blonde headed, dirtied orphan child.
I felt as though I... knew of my father.
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(no subject) [Nov. 17th, 2004|08:25 pm]
I had a dream that John Lennon was my father nights ago.
He stole me away at two in the morning.
I remember specifically, two in the morning...
He awoke me by playing across the universe.
I cried of joy and embraced him.

After that, there were a thousand instruments.
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No one notices my perfect arpeggios in the small music shop [Nov. 17th, 2004|08:18 pm]
Last night, I wrote several paragraphs of my day - longing for a purely beautiful girl with short dark hair whom I watched through a window without her knowledge, and cried for it.

I lost my body and my breath came in short, almost pre-arousal gasps.

Autumn was behind her.

But... that's all gone now.

There's a story in the paper, and it made news today.
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