paperback writer
diamond commercials disgust me

Love is not a shiny rock mined by some poor underfed child in Africa. It's something smaller, more intense, more painful, more whole.

Love is an index card and a pencil, a crayon, a symbol a decade old. It's simple. It's pure. It's a sentence: Thinking of you, Hym. It's a picture no one understands but the three that matter. It's a statement:

I've had countless people come up to me and tell me how sorry they are for me, but this. This means something.
It's a hug, a hold, a blending of souls and a transcending of time and distance twisting up into this one moment of raw connection, open and bleeding onto one another's shirts as the whirlwind of the past couple days multiplies over the deeper past and a future Without retches forth and you don't care that there are people watching and you don't care that you're not Being Strong because right now it's just important to keep hugging, keep holding until the torrent slows and everything you have and everything you wish had words has been pushed into the heart, the soul of this other person that you love so deeply she can only be called your best friend.

That. Is love.
Best friends. Are love.

Zales can kiss my ass.

The current mood of bratnatch at
FIN. 2:10 p.m., Tuesday, Feb. 07, 2006

ink :: graphite

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A work in Aberration.