Things are too loud in here today. I am dull. I am smarting off the mouth. I have bent over backwards for everyone and now you can all see my guts.
You are all very, very pretty but I’m going to have to ask you both to leave. Your dance doesn’t impress me, never has. Your crinoline skirts is wrinkled, by the way. Your eyes are crossed a little bit. You each have a new pimple on your chin. Those pimples are making me feel ill.
I wish I had a garden. I wish I had a moss and ivy garden and I’d pin little porcelain fairies to my big bush of angel trumpeters. I wish for that garden to not be public. I want it walled in like something out of the real world parts of London that CS Lewis grew up in. I want you to be in short pants. I want to be older than you, for once.
I want your heart to stop being metal and I want that tin owl to stop flapping its wings at me. I want to take you all somewhere, but I can’t move my legs.
(In other words, my brain and my heart are all discombobulated today. If I don’t rein my brain in with heavy ropes, that is what it sounds like lately.
I have made a big decision regarding a project I’ve been working on forever, and my stomach is telling me it’s right but I have to do right by the art or the art will fuck me over. Or it won’t. It will ignore me. Which would be worse.)