Words, words, words. (II. ii. 1230)

Seven hundred and three days ago, the day we met.
The countlessness of our relationship,
the breakdown of social expectation.
One hundred weeks and three days—
and we still stay up past midnight talking.
Seven hundred and three days...
maybe if numbers were words, they would mean less.

It wasn't one point five five one years of together,
it was eighteen months and eighteen days
of disconnect and momentary passion.
I have truly loved you for five hundred sixty five days
of this expanse, this fabric in time.
But, if numbers were words, and yet—

It only took three days to drown;
only point five three one percent
of the time I spent knowing you, I have spent not loving you.
Only a fraction of a hundredth,
an infinitesimal amount,
of the past eighty weeks and three days
have not been suspended in haze.
Hazed meanings and words,
words that might make numbers mean—

If numbers were words, would they mean any less than they do?
Would the kiss of five hundred one days ago
disappear in a few hours?
Can numbers make forever happen?

The young detective

My (accidental) take on the thought-fiddler, Mr. Derren Brown. <3

(I have a lot of gripes about this one. His eyes aren't quite right. The contrast is all wrong. He doesn't look adorable enough. You can't tell he's really reading your mind... etc.)

Like a wave

Another year, another planner cover. I like this one much, much better than last year's. My first time actually painting something for fun! And so it was--fun I mean. Perhaps I should do it more often.

Nikki and Mel

Sketches [5]

This is pretty much what my new sketchbook looks like.

Zea - colored pencil practice

Practice with colored pencils. I don't know if I like the way it came out... I think I worked on it too long. Should have used a reference.

színes nyár

Took me all day. I'm rather proud of it, to be honest.