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It is only a few hours old, and I am still getting used to this new gift in my life.
Don't worry, it's not what you think.
A new technology is in my house and owned by yours truly.
It's name is Bambi, since my mp3 is Jean-Luc Picard, and my old compy was Baby. My zen bowl of sand and jewels was Bob and Bob-ett. I now have a jar of blue sand that is called Babette. So yeah... I name things.

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Good luck all and sundry and hope we manage to complete said challenge. I had so many ideas for quite a few of the themes, but alas, I was forced to choose one. And choose I did.

School is in session, my legs/back/brain/everything is in agony and I'm loving every second of it for some strange reason.

Very very odd.

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Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies.

Hemingway today.
Hit and run yesterday.
Lake laboratory tomorrow.
Grocery shopping tonight.

Love Song

Aug. 13th, 2010 08:53 am
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The deep thrumming of a blood filled heart, the pulsing of throbbing veins. The near silent rushing of the crimson liquid echoed loudly in her head. Round and round, constantly moving. Never silent. Silence was a curse, but this was torment. Where was the end of her pains? Where was the solution to her troubles?
Gone! Gone and burned to dust! Never to be seen or heard from again. All she now had left were her pains and troubles; the insecurites and the near constant pains of this non-life that she existed in.
She watched in near disgusted fascination as the two coupled on what used to be her wedding bed. Now it was a nest for the snakes that they were, bathed in the blood of their prey. Blood and seed were splattered across what used to be a pristine white satin cover, while even more was being splashed across the once pale blue walls of the room. Cries and moans were turned to hisses and growling in her ears, even as her mind twisted the image of muscular legs into long tails of iridescent tails of sin.
The two men continuously coupled, ignoring her form that was tied up and hanging from a hook on the wall closest to the closet. Ignoring her suffering as she slowly bled out from the wounds she had sustained from her capture. They indulged in the scent of her blood; they let it arouse them even more and began to bugle their malicious joy.

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The images flickering in the tongues of the fire were nowhere near pleasant. All of them were of the past, all of them were of people who loved pain, and all of them had had a hand in breaking and remoulding him into what he was. They were his trainers, his creators.
They were the Triad.
And he was their Tool. Their only weapon against what they deemed were heathens and heretics to the one true power. Red is what they called him, for it was the colour he had been doused in during training and after completing his tasks. The red of freshly spilled blood. His name had once been Calvin, son of George the Smith. But that was long ago and in a place that no longer existed thanks to the Triad.
Red's victims usually rained insults and among those insults lay his other name. Hell's Whore.

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Muento cara belleluosa.

Don't know what it means but its stuck in my head.

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Where once stood nothing, now stands two proud wingless dragons. They guard their forest and adorn their scales with water jewels and feathers in elegant chains. Although they do not fly, and do not breath fire, they are the life that is the forest and bring good fortune to all those who have seen them.
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"Hey! I was eating that!," Harry cried out, watching in disgusted dismay as Ron ate the rest of his toast and worked on the sausages that remained on his golden plate. Hermione had already hidden her face behind a book at the first bite of Harry's half eaten toast. Only the suspicious sounds of soft gagging told of her feelings about Ron's behaviour at the breakfast table. It didn't help that just in front of Ron lay a large pile of toast, and to the red-head's right was a plate full of still steaming sausage.
Feeling his appetite wither away and die at the sight of partially chewed meat and bread escaping from his best friend's lips, Harry decided to try and distract himself with staring at the charmed ceiling. Late May sunshine was peeking past wisps of white clouds that drifted lazily across the enchanted sky.
Perhaps a quick peek outside would cheer his day; an escape from the gossip still raging through the Great Hall five months after Voldemort's defeat. That and a very quick getaway from Ron's rampage on all that was edible in front of him. A quick glance at Hermione's hold on her book and quivering of her shoulders told him that an escape would be very much appreciated at that second.

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When you can still smile even though you feel like you're dying,
When jokes still pour past your cracked and numbed lips,
When laughter still racks your phlegm filled lungs,
When you still clap even though you're not physically happy,
When your feet still twitch with the urge to dance even though your legs won't move.

You know humour and the ability to enjoy even the worst days still rule your life and make it all that much better.

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Through the roots of time we weave. Over and under, back and yonder, leaving ripples in the great pool of life. Chaos and Order, peace and war. Dark and light, like ripples in water, sparkles of flashing colours meant to blind and dazzle. The bough of the mighty Tree of Being spreads its majestic arms outward to touch many worlds, and many lights. It's leaves are the many different lives that bud and blossom, wither and die all in their own time. The rare flowers that bloom are the few nodes of power that are given tangible form, left to redirect the flow of growth.

Beneath those roots lie the Asp; the Wyrm of Destruction and Recreation. Bitter and sly, angered yet amused, it gnaws on one of the three main roots that keep the Tree of Being alive. It gnaws away, forever trying to weaken the mighty Tree, but getting naught but more gall to feed its ire. 

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It might make the headache decrease by just that much. When will the minuscule hair on my legs become the thick pelt of the faun? I wish for those bumps on my skull to develop into horns, for my feet to divide into elongated ankles, and harden into cloven hooves. Perk my breasts to the point of them beginning to flatten into pectorals, make my belly that of a stone hard washboard made of flesh. Let my tail bone sprout into a little swish of white fur and bone. Elongate and swivel my ears about, point them and cover them in light peach fuzz. give me a musical lute for a voice instead of this harsh cawing.
I wish to run freely in the Wood with nary a stumble or scuffle. Bound lively through the green Wood, feast on its bountiful riches. I will never falter in my joy, never hesitate to let my voice sing with laughter.

Cagarash, follow me into the deep Wood.
Be my Pan; lure me with your laughter and flute song.
Lure and conjure, my beautiful illusion.

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Expect the unexpected, temper your patience at the smithy and wear heavy duty leather hide for the incoming explosion of energy and unnatural happy flowers.

Words and art, art and words. They go together hand in hand, and in the future will be worth their weight in gold, and as the days go by, their weight will increase exponentially.

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Ignore the gut churning, ignore the slight tickle of a throb in the depths of your skull. Ignore the discomfort lodged in your throat, never mind the ache in your jaw as your teeth clench. Just keep breathing through a semi blocked throat and keep your fluttering heart under wraps. Don't think about tomorrow, about how many people will be there, how you will get there, or how old you are compared to them. Just relax, let it flow away from you in the stream of air from your mini fan.
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Aches and pains like an old granny, counting the pennies that are at the bottom of the jar of wealth. Whereto shall we wander, and where ever shall we rest our old frail bones. Five pennies and a half quarter is not enough to save the life of an ant.

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It.... has been done.

The house... it is no longer a concern for any of my family.

Thank god for that.

But we shall mourn for our neighbour's dog, Jagger a black and white borzoi. He died peacefully, but the way to peace was not so gentle on his lively soul. He shall be missed.

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Heels are swollen.

Fingers are sausaged.

Knees dislocated.

Uterus cramping and gushing.

Dog trying to murder through cat-like techniques.

I believe the new house is a hit.

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Moving day is upon us,
Busy busy busy like bees.

So wait a few days, and see what I see.

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Bores and lillysmores, Kenny deaths and baby's breath.

Expect oddness from those who eat grilled cow and pig on a day as hot as this one.

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There is a moment during the night when everything has murderous intent.

Yes, murderous indeed.

My pillows beg to smother me, while my blankets writhe so as to wrap about my throat.

The bed beneath my back wishes to rise and swallow me whole.

The walls wish to concave and flatten me like an unlucky bug,

While the ceiling bucks and tries to do the same.

The floors are plotting, readying to split beneath my bare feet,

While my bookshelves leer as they prepare to fling their papery missiles.

The windows and lamps shimmer as they wriggle, ready to explode in thousands of shards.

Tell me not of the heater, for it will burn me alive given the chance.


Jun. 26th, 2010 11:22 am
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Sleep, oh blissful sleep. Wherefore art thou? I need thy comforting arms wrapped about me, pulling me deeper into the depths of my subconscious.
Please return to me, oh love!
Horrors tempt my waking thoughts, while hunger gnaws at the empty cavity that is my belly. But my mind is fraught with stress and exhaustion, yet cannot seek that blissful utopia that is unconsciousness without thee!

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