Answer
  • Question: are you stalking my blog? :P :D - lightning-eyes
  • Answer:

    What you call stalking, I call long distance relationship. 

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This ship has set sail. And it doesn’t matter how much the seas will turn. You will either reach your destination, or sink beneath the waves - there is no turning back to land. So grab your oars and blow wind into your sails, for the journey has just begun and there is much distance yet to go.

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Even a broken compass always finds the right path when you don’t know where you’re headed. 

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Fun Fact: Pinter ink costs more than human blood.

This is why Satan has people sign legally binding documents in blood - he’s not evil, just fiscally responsible.

This is also where Dolores Umbridge got the idea to force Harry to write his apology note making use of his own blood; she was merely trying to save a few dollars because of the horrid state economic state that Hogwarts was in. I mean, they’re a public wizarding school - where do they get their funding?

So remember kids: fiscal responsibility is important. 

Print all your documents in blood.

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Oh that I should write like the rain:

A thunderous roar

Left to puddle in the soul.

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Martha Daisy Madison was not a pretty woman. She was far too tall for her arms, and far too short for her legs. The type of girl who in school was badgered and called names, in public put down and called unseemly, and on dates disappointed and never called again.

Her belly was too large they said, her breasts a size too small; her eyes were boring, dull and brown, and her chin was barely there at all. Her lips were tinted cherry red, but thin as thin could be; her eyebrows burnt-umbrae, but thick as thick could be. She had too many freckles, two for every star, and the space between her eyes, was just a bit too far. Her ears were slightly askew, and her hands were that of a man’s.

Martha Daisy Madison was not a pretty woman.

Her hair had the shading of a long-since fallen leaf, with random vivid reds and oranges fading to splotches of pallid yellows and dying browns. When wet, it rebelled in a tangled jungle of jumbled locks, when dry it frizzed and pooffed like bristles. Never had she found a comb to tame it, and had taken to pulling it up into a severe bun on the back of her head in order to maintain some semblance of control; often times, a few stray hairs would escape their prison and drape down over her forehead or slither down the back of her neck.

Clothes seemed to make a habit of mocking her odd frame, either to long or too short, too tight or too loose – and having a pale complexion and calico hair, she could never wear any bright colors or soft pallets. Instead, she was forced to find the clothes in the ‘depressing’ shades. Colors ranging from eel-gray, to eggplant purple, to burnt-toast brown. She often had to settle for the second best, so that they clung about her like poorly constructed bath curtains, making her into a gangly, plump pumpkin. Make-up, which made her look like a run-away clown was out of the question; and on the few occasions she dared try to look pretty, she felt like a little girl who had found her mother’s purse.

Sometimes, Martha Daisy Madison wished she were anyone but she.

Today had been a slow day. Not that there was anything unusual about that – in her short time of running the Glenley Falls Library, Martha had found there wasn’t much action concerned with the job. Head-librarian was not something she had aspired to be, and besides the occasional indecent drawing in a book, nothing ever seemed to happen.

Except of course, for the Closing.

When she had been forced to return to her hometown five years ago, she’d seen it as an opportunity to get back on her feet after her rather spectacular failure as an editor for the New York Times. Yes, she had thought back then, she’d come back to Glenley Falls for a month or two; collect her mind, get the pieces back together. She’d visit Mom and Dad, some old high-school friends she hadn’t seen since heading off to college. Maybe visit Dale, see if she could light any old sparks. This was not giving up, it was a retreat to reform her ranks. Coming home to Glenley Falls would be a new beginning for her.

Here she was, five years, four months, six days and nineteen hours later locking the doors to the town library; the same as she had every Tuesday at seven o’clock. A registered voter, member of the school committee, with a secure landline and mortgage on a house she didn’t even like. Fallen off the American Dream, to live the American Reality.

Martha Daisy Madison was going nowhere fast.

With a sigh she picked up her pack from the hot cobbled stone at library’s entrance, and swung it over her gangly shoulders. The straps caught on her dress and bunched up the fabric around her collar, but she did nothing to try and fix it, the dress wasn’t very flattering to begin with. Her faded blue shoes with the pink laces clicked on the cobble as she walked past the large marble columns towards her bike, which leaned chained up to the brand-new bike-rack. Glenley Falls was a safe, quiet town – but notorious for a recent rash of random-bike thievery, of which the neighborhood watch was deeply interested. Any poor bike not chained down, would be stolen, and so outside all of the major town landmarks, bike-racks had been installed to impede the progress of the increasingly problematic bike-snatchers.

Despite it’s usefulness, Martha hated the thing. It was large, metal and clunky, in complete disregard for the beautiful barouche architecture of the library itself, which was a wonderful example of masonry, with stern walls that faced the road with robust and intricate carvings adorning it’s every nook and corner.  The curves of etchings flews like sparrows from the woodwork, tracing the veins of nature across the sandy red-gray brick. Each shadow and contour an image of life: an animal, or plant so realistic they seemed to climb up the walls. Heavy windows gazed out with tired, dusty glass, so that the sun glanced in and caught on the edges of row after row of bookshelves.

It was not a particularly tall building, nor was it exceedingly long – short and squat, only two stories tall. Yet it was undeniably majestic, the last of a dying breed: how wondrous, the form of a small town library.

Number 56 North Russet Street; truly, it was beautiful. Now if only people would come.

Ah, there was the rub, Martha thought downcastedly as she unhinged her bike from it’s monstrosity-of-a-stable. With no one to come and read the countless volumes shackled up within those stonewalls, the library was hardly more than a keeper of neat paper-bundles. And neat paper-bundles didn’t pay for themselves.

Hence the Closing.

She wished with all her heart it didn’t have to be so, but the inevitability of the Closing seemed as sure as each heavy pant that accompanied her progress up the near vertical slope of Russet Street. Why did she even use the old chartreuse bicycle? After all, bikes were meant to keep you fit, in shape – all this one had shaped her into was ‘less awkwardly pear-like’, and made her significantly more opposed to hills. At least she didn’t have to worry about gas-prices.

The summer months had come and passed with fall fast approaching, so even at the tender hour of seven the sun was threating to dip behind the hills. The memo however, had not reached the people of the small town, who milled about the streets reveling in the lingering light of the lingering summer. Fireflies wheeled around the stalks of grass in the warm breeze, competing with the setting sun.

It was a beautiful evening. Birds danced in the air as the clouds slunk to the edges of the horizon, their songs matching the crescendo of buzzing insects. Squirrels chattered about the day’s end, and men and woman spoke about the night’s beginning – for the night was just as young as the fall. And over it all, panted Martha Daisy Madison.

She huffed and puffed, hands gripping tight to the handles of her trusty ten-gauge. It was the same everyday, as it always had been and always would be; she’d closed up the library to ride up one hill and down another to the small Glenley Falls downtown – a collection of storefronts rubbing elbows, interlinked around the large town common. Their windows and doors alight with activity, selling away the memory of summer days to fight off the change of season.

The temperature wouldn’t drop for a few weeks, and schoolwork had yet to swamp all of the students so they holed themselves up in their rooms after conducting lavish vocal confrontations with their parents, so roaming flocks of laughing teens patrolled the storefronts. Cellphones out, texting the friends that weren’t there with them, and ignoring the ones who were. Anyone else over twenty who shopped at this hour shook their heads at them – but welcomed the carnival atmosphere they provided; the storeowners didn’t complain about the extra costumers either. So in these first weeks of autumn the marketplace was filled with exited bodies hurrying under the shadows of the streetlamps.

Oh, the cacophony of noise!  Not only was there the tramping of feet as they marched across the pavement in an untended unison, but the chatter of the bodies and mouths to which the feet belonged as they competed with the doppler of car horns and the hail of bells from open doors. They meshed together in the sound of human life, alive and ever-changing. It was the breath of the small town, and it battled with the low drone of the natural world. And over it all rose the sound of music from the white Gazebo that sat in the center of the common.

In the heart of the small white castle, with paint flaking off the sides in large chunks, the local Sensitive Senior Orchestra from Shady Oaks Retirement Home bugled their elderly hearts out. A swell of music as preformed as only hands that knew the instrument’s every curve and dent possibly could. As the band played, the people danced the dance of everyday life.

The marketplace of Glenley Falls was stunningly beautiful.

Martha Daisy Madison was not a pretty woman, and she peddled her bike wearily into the fray. Huffing and puffing away.

She wobbled unsteadily upon her pink rapid-racers seat like a slightly intoxicated bumblebee, palms growing sweaty at the sight of so many faces that weren’t hers. So many people. Pebbles skirted out from under her tires as she slowed to match the pace of the crowd. They mingled and lounged around in the quickly fading sunlight, walking boldly out in front of cars not a care in the world.

So many people.

The odd librarian on her chartreuse bike didn’t mingle well, she never had. With no claim at skill she set about weaving and dodging through the mass of people she would never truly ever mesh with. Even the swish of her tires was out of place with the tromping of feet – and each revolution drove her further into the canvas in which she had never fit. Martha Daisy Madison did not match the dance of everyday life. She was a shade off the rest, and a pitch a tad too low.

So many people.

She wanted nothing more than for her chartreuse bike to carry her away from the crowd. She gulped and gasped, her face flushed red, blood pumping by her ears to drown out the music that floated from the white castle.

So many people.

Her legs pumped downwards.

She peddled, dodging through the crowd.

So many people.

She peddled, passing the people she would never be.

So many people.

She peddled, huffing and puffing.

So many people.

She peddled, so as not to cry.

So many people.

Martha Daisy Madison did her best not to cry.

The wind whipped by her, pulling apart the bun that held up her autumn hair. Today had been a slow day, nothing had changed. No matter how fast she pumped her legs, Martha Daisy Madison always started to cry.

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The grass between my toes/

Knows just how the wind did blow/

It’s cold without you dear/

How I wish you were here//

 

These solemn days we see no sun/

Our happiness has all but run/

But in the summer we would play/

Such a beautiful yester, yesterday//

 

The grass between my toes/

Tread upon where no one knows/

But in the summer we would play/

In the summer we would say://

 

Watermelon Seeds and Pony Beads/

You’re the lampshade of my eye/

You pick me up when I am down/

You’re a reason not to cry/

Baby, Baby you’re all I see so come with me and we’ll string the town up red//

 

All this hope we used to hold/

Ran away when we grew old/

Come along and you will see/

How beautiful this life can be//

 

Puppy love that’s all it is/

Puppy love when we were kids/

Why did we grow old/

I’ve lost your hand to hold//

 

Now the grass under my toe/

Where you walk I do not know/

But in the summer we would play/

In the summer we would say://

 

Watermelon Seeds and Pony Beads/

You’re the lampshade of my eye/

You pick me up when I am down/

You’re a reason not to cry/

Baby, Baby you’re all I see so come with me and we’ll string the town up red//

 

Come along and you will see/

How beautiful this life can be/

Chase the clouds above/

All this wonderful, wonderful love//

 

Watermelon Seeds and Pony Beads/

You’re the lampshade of my eye/

You pick me up when I am down/

You’re a reason not to cry/

Baby, Baby you’re all I see so come with me and we’ll string the town up red//

 

Watermelon Seeds and Pony Beads/

You’re the lampshade of my eye/

You pick me up when I am down/

You’re a reason not to cry/

Baby, Baby you’re all I see so come with me and we’ll string the town up red//

 

Puppy love that’s all it is/

Puppy love when we were kids/

Why did we grow old/

I’ve lost your hand to hold//

 

Now the sky has grown cold/

And we have both grown old/

Once again I find you near/

I will always love you dear//

 

Puppy love that’s all it is/

Puppy love when we were kids/

And though we did grow old/

I’ve still got your hand to hold//

Answer
  • Question: So, why the lack of updates lately? - Anonymous
  • Answer:

    Uggh, college. :(

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If you’re ever lonely,

Just remember,

There are other people out there,

Being lonely with you.

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Star thread is woven tight

But sometimes diamonds fall

From cracks in the light.

It is you who I reach for,

You who shines

In the darkest night.