Your eyes they look so bright, a funky flair in my appetite, but there's no room for you, my feet are on the ground, and my head is in the clouds, but you still can't break through, whatcha gonna do. I'm not just gonna stand around, Waiting for my lips to be read, falling through the cracks in the ground, my feelings need to be said. Flowing like water in a crimson melody, the orange plastic sun is shining, and the truth so hard to see, the rain of your existence if falling down on me, and the soap suds spread like a disease from my washing machine. I'm not just gonna stand around, Waiting for my lips to be read, falling through the cracks in the ground, my feelings need to be said. I'm not just gonna stand around, waiting for you, falling through the cracks in the ground, and I'm hoping that you'll make your next move, that you'll make your next move... I'm not just gonna stand around, Waiting for my lips to be read, falling through the cracks in the ground, my feelings need to be said.

So yes. Today I went home after second, because I just didn't find the rest of my day's outlook prodigious in any way, shape, or form. This weekend Sei's coming over, and we're baking Niko a cake! And then we're watching Iron Jawed Angels and then perhaps going to the Grand China Buffet...yay! And then on Sunday we're going to see the egyptian exhibit at the High Museum. Excitement! ...I need a hug. ;_; Matt's show name is now "Belvedere". Um yes. I hate martyrs. Here, I wrote some more of Mirar. Enjoy. Whatever. --- Mirar I guess most people never stop to think about themselves. No, not like “I’m so cool,” or anything, but deeper, like “Who am I?” “What am I?” Where do I belong…? Most people are content to live in nothing but the present, and some are stuck in the past. Maybe they’ll never get out, but they’re happy to be there, and nobody cares enough to try and pry them out of it. There probably aren’t that many, even at our age, who want to think about the future. It scares us, because it promises death and old age. Who really wants to think that they aren’t immortal? I’ve come to the conclusion that there are certain types of people. No, I’m not some stereotype crazy fiend, but after you’ve lived as long as I have and seen as much as I have, you start to classify everything. It’s simply easier. Like Carolus Linnaeus, I’ve begun to weave for myself a world of basic theories and silent, deadly caste systems crisscrossed by the wandering eigenvectors that are the people I knew and know and will know. Always changing, always different. You’ve got your cheerleaders and your jocks, those tall, built guys who stalk the halls hungrily as if they own them and anyone or anything in them. Skinny, pimply faces, sharp noses and crumpled spines that peer out from behind science fiction magazines, these are the nerds, the geeks, the dorks. Girls who fit in anywhere and will do anything for affection; starving, clawing at remnants of a fantasy world shattered by the scrutiny of hatefully harsh idealists. Waifs in black clothing that float from doorway to doorway, they glorify death and cry about life. Backwards. They think they know death, when they have no idea. None. And then you’ve got people like me. Wanderers, observers, always quiet. We are the chameleons, the actors, the always attentive. We’re not really humble, either, I guess. But we’re soft and sensual, no hard edges, you’ll never brush up against us in the hallway. We observe. We take notes. And then we apply. However, it was only recently we began to do the latter. I was the king of them all, and I was the king of hypocrisy. I never let myself learn from either my mistakes or those of they around me. I paid for it to the one thing that nobody can, could, or will ever harness. Not man. Not woman. Not child. Not God. It is frighteningly simple to me now, the things I could have done and saved her in the process. It’s too late now. Before she is even cold in her grave I will write this. I love you, Sam. Us There was a time at the high school when the most popular girl in school could walk through a hallway and touch the hand of every single person there, but those days are long gone. People themselves are too diverse, too different, too deep in their own denial. Nobody knows when it started, or why, but overnight they went from a group of people who worked together to cliques, stereotypes, “Each man for himself.” Few remembered how it used to be, and few of those few cared at all. But those that did removed themselves from the society that was called by others “The Bubble” and tried to preserve all that. They did not mingle with others. They were quiet, stealthy, but they were anyone. They could have been brightly or somberly clothed, they could have come from troubled homes or orphanages, but they all had the sameness in common. They learned from their mistakes, they grew and became deep eyed, deep souled people. But it affected them too. He He was their leader. He had the final say in everything they did, and he was nobody special. People said he was a “nothing”, and they hated him because he drifted. But he was someone, he was something; you can never have nothing—the very idea made him laugh out loud. He had two normal parents and two older brothers, who were twins and away at college. He had a dog and a cat and a goldfish and two eyes that were brown. His hair was black, and often fell in his eyes. He liked to watch soccer on TV. But that was about it, he wasn’t odd or unusual. He wasn’t worth writing a story about, but his story created itself. Fate is fickle, it wears justice’s blindfold and slaps those down its pointer finger deems worthy. Even the nothings everyone spoke of have a story…this is his. Spanish Flashcards “Jump for it! Jump for it!” She cackles, perfectly lacquered black nails that clutch Sam’s homework assigned flashcards between peachy flesh and a blue veined palm. Her eyes are crisply outlined in black, her eyelashes garishly thick and gaudy, concealer caked on in thick globs that look smooth only from a distance. So what is she trying to conceal, anyway? Sam jumps, but her fingers do not quite reach the ruffles of paper edges that snatch directly out of her grasp, tugged as if by some macabre puppetry by a lace edged sleeve. “Jump for it!” Sam stops, standing and looking up with eyebrows that furrow together. The girl’s mouth becomes red, heated, stained with blood on the lips that flap like two pieces of raw meat, oozing foul words and anger—a Gucci vulture. Shivers of fear, now, a world as grey as the minds of the people that pass by the bully and her victim and say nothing at all. “Jump!!!!” The vulture spreads its wings and screeches menacingly, but Sam is transfixed in the deep ochre of its stare, she couldn’t have moved it she wanted to. A single flashcard flutters to the ground in the still of blissfully white noise that follows, brushing across Sam’s hand like the wings of so many broken butterflies. Mirar. Simone, who is a real friend. “So, there’s a new girl,” Simone says nonchalantly over the phone to him. He briefly lets his mind flicker over the fact that it wasn’t really Simone’s voice he was hearing, but a technological representation, digitalized. “She’s kind of weird.” “Uh huh.” “She’s sort of dorky…wears big glasses all the time…won’t talk to any guys or anything…” He is concentrating on beating his death storm high score, not really even half listening. Simone talks on and on, a broken record full of things to say like ‘geek’, ‘dork’, ‘loser’, etcetera. “So what do you think?” He asks randomly, setting down the controller and switching the phone to his other shoulder. “I think you need a girlfriend, that’s what I think.” Simone’s voice is thick and dripping with sarcasm and uninhibited disgust. “And what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t set you up?” “I’m okay, thanks Simone.” “I’m a real friend…truly, a real friend.” “I don’t know…” “Yes sir, definitely the best anyone could have.” Satisfied, like a cat licking milk off of its whiskers, Simone abruptly shuts off the connection, and at that precise moment, He vanquishes his enemies and earns a new spaceship shield. ---- WTF? I confuse myself.