(Baddha) Akarna Dhanurasana

Will finish soon.

UGH FUCK. FUCK FUCK FUCK. 116 days left. FUCK.

There's no guarantees

Won't you please forgive me, but you know cold blooded women make me sneeze.

This is what I see when I hear A Heady Tale. And Look Out Sunshine.

Basically, Taphrin (the girl) receives a letter from a boy she's stupidly in love with saying he's going on an adventure, essentially leaving her behind. She won't have it that way, so she runs away from her gypsy village home and finds her way to the nearest town. There, in the town pub, Maxlin (the creep) has just been left by his wife for drinking too much--but it's okay because he knows his wife has been cheating on him anyway--and decides to get drunk and start anew. When Taph inquires about the fastest way to the big city, he offers her a full ride, as he wants to get out himself.

Also, I am in love with Max's arm and shirt.

Pin-up Robin

Alphonse Mucha

I liked his beard...

You mean the world to me

but you'll never know...


A while ago, one of my friends was telling me about a conversation she had with a psychiatrist with regards to difficulty falling asleep. The psychiatrist told her to come up with a story about people she also made up. Lately, I've had difficulty falling asleep and, in an effort to clear my head and drift off, I've been making up stories about these two. Tommy (not fishboy, the other one) and Robin. I've been making up stories about them for three years now.

It's strange, I feel like subconsciously my latent desire to be Robin is affecting my conscious decisions. Three years ago I decided Robin would do something drastic in her life, namely go to college in England... I actually forgot this until I read it in an old sketchbook.

The mind is strange. Life is strange.

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?