This probably is my favourite bit from the book -

"People have stars, but they aren't the same...
.... You, though, you'll have stars like nobody else."

"What do you mean?"

"When you look up at the sky at night, since I'll be living on one of them, since I'll be laughing on one of them, for you, it'll be as if all the stars are laughing. You'll have stars that can laugh!"

And he laughed again.

"And when you're consoled (everyone is eventually consoled), you'll be glad you've known me.
You'll always be my friend. You'll feel like laughing with me.
And you'll open your windows sometimes just for the fun of it... And your friends will be amazed to see you laughing while you're looking up at the sky.
Then you'll tell them, 'Yes, it's the stars. They always make me laugh!"

Fluid and smoke. Fluid and smoke. Fluid and smoke.
I am so full of shit. I'm ashamed of my behaviour.

Two very different poems by William Blake.

The Angel that presided o'er my birth said,
"Little creature form'd of Joy & Mirth,
Go Love without the help of any
Thing on Earth."

*

Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to Its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite.

I feel hypocritical saying I want to write long letters. I do, I just can't seem to bring myself to. I know a beautiful girl who makes the most ridiculous faces in all her photographs. She probably doesn't mean to but she either chews on her lower lip or her smiles always look artificial. Of all the things I will miss once the next two months end, I will miss spending winter afternoons, sitting on the sidewalk, smoking with N the most. It's engrained so deeply and perfectly in my mind I probably will want to paint the scene when I'm 60. I'm done liking white flowers, I've decided I want my flowers with colour. One thing that I really wish I had the time to do is gardening. Given my way I'd grow yellow flowers the size of a baby's head and tiny purple blossoms. I want obscene shades of red and a violent orange. I want a garden that looks like a gunshot. Unfortunately, since this would require tending to during the day it might just forever remain a pipe dream. However much I love the idea of dirt and green velvety stalks with delicate tendrils, mornings are not a big part of my activities. If not gardening, perhaps I will get some scratchy paper and a bottle of green ink and practice my cursive writing. I will listen to Leonard Cohen all throughout and grow old learning his words by heart and taking them far too seriously. In so many ways the things that I choose to do are completely wrong for me. I love the very notion of carefully chosen words and images becoming the substance my bones are made of. My hair has grown long and secretly I itch for hacking it all off myself. My old bones will be a moor of deep blues and melancholy greens.

Today is just the kind of day where you wake up wanting to listen to Pretty Vegas followed by Kielbasa.

Describing a burn that happened a long time ago. Playing by gossamer rules, the benevolence of pride. Collective dreams in vivid colour, accentuating my burn. The thing that becomes important is legacy. It's all about what you leave behind for others to work with. It's about self worth and, hopefully, getting it right.
It takes one good song to save the world. It takes the poetry of millions to place our words in perspective. The ground we all stand on is the same.

It's a universal law. If you see a woman in nice shoes, her feet are in agony. And this isn't restricted to pointy shoes. My pumas have mangled my feet.
In other news candy with colour is the the way to go.

I think it's extremely interesting in terms of race studies that in a N.Y. cake or cookie, nobody likes the white half as much as the black half. Harmony and brotherhood aside, is this a secret snigger at white people ? Internet, I say yes. It's done subtly. I never eat the white halves of the cookies, the cake perhaps.