sabuoh

A sudden memory came to me today.
The moors were draped in sheets of gentle rain. As I looked around myself, I could see all across the crisscrossed landscape, up to my knees in cold mud, a horseshoe crab in my right hand. The sweet scent of rain, mud, and the subtlest smell of salt stinging my nostrils. The sea, the sea... Brackish water swirling around my legs, and rain dripping down my face. Dreary landscape for a dreary child, but this was true contentment. This was to exist, with no one for miles, and the sea--
So vivid, it seemed for a moment that was where I was. Sometimes I forget. Did this ever even happen?

nonsense

I have to say, "shining shoes in [the] late afternoon" has a certain ring to it.

sibiu in winter is nothing like you've seen

[cryptic so you don't have to be!]
---

when i was a young man
i loved a maiden fair
with eyes blue as the sky
and lilacs in her hair

---

Shining shoes in the evening was never a good idea.
We were expected to rise late, long past noon, and ride into our sweatshops on the backs of intolerable peccaries, draped all in roses long since rotted. As the sun casts its dying red light like the sinewy tendons of some great beast, we drag ourselves along the cement until our nails break off and our bellies are bloodied, all for the sake of some two-bit aristocrat whose only desire is to return home at night in the hopes that their wives might be waiting. It is only the catamites for these pederasts.
Once our tongues cracked dry, we slid that burning iron down our throats, taking our time so that we might delight in our trial. That was all it was about anymore; the trials. There was no longer a sense of dignity, of refinement, in our art. Where once we had brought out the brilliance in the most decrepit of footwear, now we were simply toiling.
All for nothing but the chance to crawl back home
back home
back to the hearth.
Sunday's crimes are the dreams of August.

---

The only thing on my mind is that night beneath the stars, when the constellations panned before us, and we laughed.

and we laughed

Has it been so long?

what does that even make sense no

you know, sometimes i think i need someone to talk to who isn't
i dunno
the person in question

my nickname at school is officially "faggot", i have a bruise all along my side where that boy hit me, and i don't even know who these people are. oh, and there's nothing i can do about it.

awesome.

typical me typical me typical me typical me typical me typical me typical me typical me typical me typical me typical me typical me typical me typical me typical me

they say it's best to just end it now, but there are smiles to be considered.

good night world

sleep tight

pointless

i believe i am getting a cold.

[this is asinine.]

the Dream Eater

There has been a dream eater at the foot of my bed ever since I got back. I thought he would have left after we moved, but he's still here; I can't see his face, but I feel his eyes on me, watching, always watching. He's well fed, and when I get up he slinks into the closet, but someone tells me he's getting too large for it. I don't even know who; he's eating away at sleep and mind, and thought comes sluggishly, reluctantly. Nothing is to be sensible when he feeds, and he is feeding.

He is always feeding. I don't know the last time I got more than an hour of sleep. Before I returned. Before this. Before, before, before.