Hello all. Haven't posted here for a while... anyhoo just wrote this little thing tonight... I cannot speak to you, for all my colours will spill into the telephone lines, pushing you to do something that I don't want you to. I know this from the pills you take, from the drunken tears and accusations you make. You are a true character. Acting out a script by the great playwright of your selfish unconcious. All of life is one performance, all of life sacrificed for an invisible art. Bring forth words from the mind to the page. Is there a soul that will need to document this life? Or have they grown resentful of its triumphs with age? Heavenly idols prompt this actress on as echoes of tragedy grow stronger and the great thespian's life grows longer. Peace and love
