Paper-based Excuses

Shame. Anticipation of dissipation of mine and yours and precious' time. Expecting the disappointment with unreached ambitions, set on an unrealistically positive bus journey home.

Feline friend, you shall become part of my collection of loved ones, in the future. That's one example of a short-term goal. The future-related one, not a sporting goal.

I have recently exploited my capacity for self-analysis via word associations, and am now entering a phase of love for the abstract and of spot-on simplicity. Mere references, philosophy, the metro, my brain, the shop on the way to morissons that has positioned the most beautiful of flowers out on the disgusting streets of southwark. It's a shame. A complete waste.

Enamored with the darker. Finally a return. Hurray.

Ground-up seashells, vanilla and parsley.

Smells are so intense it's irritating.

What's the deal with pineapples, anyway? so bizarre. Odd, strange, joke plants.

Henna conditioner fumes are posing as a distraction to my enjoyment of a one-girl-tv-marathon, accompanied by a third of a tub of lower fat piggy ice-cream, three jumpers for added oomph, cigarette cravings and a half browsed-through magazine by the side.

Solving riddle-like, selfish comment puzzles entertains me so much, i wish there were other people producing similarities for me to attempt. Superior to any other form of entertainment. Or at least to the majority.

How many times are you allowed to repeat your day? It makes life seem shorter. Horrible. I coexist with a constant fear of wasting precious minutes on nothingess. Live live as quickly as possible. Live it all.