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Wait, she had to go get her glasses.
Let's start with fear.
Where was it for instance? When she had done this last in California - an earthquake of a shift in her life AKA moved domiciles after experiencing hell - she had paced the streets at night in panic and groaned and shredded her clothing and freaked the fuck out (she was so sorry for that cat...so sorry and tried so hard to get out of it for their sake).
School begins.
When she said in her head in this pink-covered folding table of a desk in the city of her birth around the corner from a street named after Alfred the Great where her father fell on his sword. They can never remember the order - her mother and now she - with time. Were they fleeing to Macon then Savannah then Macon and which house was which. It was weird to even imagine the feelings of her father. That monster having feelings? The whole reason for the earthquake had been that her fundamental belief in the structure of her life had moved with a word - and she should have known it all the time.
This is too poetic.
Yet, one day you'll see why it's talked around.
This borrowed time - renewed checkout.
The ONLY thing that came to her in her sunken bed with the mint green rouched comforter. She had salvaged some some few things from the wreck of California.
"Start something, you will be successful at it."
"All artists are mystics."
"At Least that's what you said."
Seeking geographic solutions to deeply seated psychological problems. Something as simple as going to see the moon when it's full.
Seeing the trees outside help her keep from wincing. Her first love had sent her a photo of his only child - dancing in the ocean kiss while the moon eclipses and rises.
Of course she was happy for him.
a happy worshipper.
Her temple dry barren and pale blood. She had seen such sexy older men lately rocking out - Jarvis cocker and that dude from Depeche Mode. Such where the youth body isn't regretted as much as it seems with the females to gaze upon.
Yet, she digressed. Work loomed. It was five thirty in the morning where she worked - it meant long tethered evenings to this place. She was working on making it a home. The muscadine grapes had been rather welcome - every morning the most pungent sweetness sharp as cheddar and spitting out the seeds and missing one a lot.
Perhaps it was the pill drugs, yet it was so much harder for her to backpedal into waves of depression.
The lady across the street filled the role of 'tenacious female' in her sector. She felt more exposed on her 15-minute walks around the neighborhood. It was harder to be anonymous in the south. One can do it, they just have to be one of the odd ones. She was used to that and couldn't - at this particular point - envision a spaghetti dinner with aggressive Christians. She appreciated the connection though. If they ever needed anything...
She had always been the observer.
And the lady across the street helps out with foster kids - how cool.
One of the little boys likes to go in the street and throw things in the air.
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