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I love songs. I love those times when I can really listen and hear all the parts of them, and realise that some of them are perfect things. Not beautiful, necessarily, but perfect. But then they always end. It’s one of the saddest things…






Usually I am in the habit of noting down my more important doings (lies), but I forgot one. Yesterday I tied a length of bronze ribbon around my left wrist, with the intention of wearing it until I am either told to take it off at work, or it falls off on its own. I am curious to see which happens first.






I had another dream last night, although it was very different from the last one I described. In this dream, my Wolf and I were looking for each other. We were trapped in this house that was probably designed by M.C. Escher, and kept missing each other…I saw him once, but he was on the other side of a window, and I couldn’t figure out how to get to a corridor that would take me in that direction. Someone had also warned me before I went into the Escher-house that there were wolf-creatures in there, but I thought they were talking about my Wolf. Not so. Eventually, I found myself in a white tiled room with most of the floor cut out so that the room fell away into empty space, and while I was in this room, a pack of things like horror-movie wolfmen swarmed into the room. Most of them ignored me, but there were two cub-looking wolf creatures that were growling at me and being generally threatening. I don’t usually feel that afraid of things in my dreams (at worst, I feel a little uneasy), but I was petrified. I was relieved when a familiar, more completely canine face showed up and the half creatures scattered. (I don’t know why I still had the black picture up…I know this mental construct of myself isn’t that colour.)






There are too many things.

I keep hearing things…catching the faintest of scents…tasting things and thinking of what I have not thought of in ages. But I didn’t need to think of them then, because they were just there. I wish I had held them in longer than I did. The tiniest shards of memories aren’t enough to go on, even if there are so many of them that the crush of them all at once makes it hard to breathe.


He said to me earlier that if we could just go back, things could be put right. That’s not so. He says that, but I know we couldn’t’ve done any different. We didn’t know any better. I don’t think he would try to put it right, knowing now what we do…I fancy he would just go back and do all of it over with the knowledge that it will hurt. I think something about me would take a savage sort of pleasure in that. In holding our breath longer.


I would be awfuller, faster. That’s the only thing that would be different.