Friday, April 8, 2011


That’s what it is.
Stuck to the walls of my throat
So I cannot breathe.
Like a head cold,
But less benign.
Choking, or in
Cloying clouds,
It eats away
At the soul.

-of toska, i

(day seventy-five)

Some days feel overwhelming, even before they’ve begun.

And then some days don’t ever begin.

-Viens avec moi.


I will seek forever out of the hope that I am wrong,
and the fear that I am right. 

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