averypatientgreen894

And when you leave on a polite murmur, I'll close the door behind you as you go Into a starry, calm evening. I'll turn to the window and watch you leave On cordial whispers and gentle concessions, And wish to God you had thrown the chair through it, Cursing and howling as you went Into an uncertain night.

*I would like to dedicate this pasta to Julie Harris, who passed away today. She was an absolutely magnificent and versatile actress who enjoyed a long and varied career. However, for me, her most haunting performance was that of tragic and mad Eleanor in The Haunting, and this serves as the basis for my own "Elanor" in the story you are about to read.* I don't know where to begin. These past few weeks have been so bizarre, so inexplicably disturbing. I feel almost as if I'm lying, given the sheer incredibility of what's been going on. If it were you in my shoes, I'd probably not believe you myself. But, these have been the most terrifying d

Once, there was a man who'd go wandering in the city. He never really had a particular direction, he just chose a route and went the length of it. There were never any specific circuits, either, other than a quick turn to the right or left for a turnabout when the time came to go home. But, everyday, without fail, he'd pull on a coat and his shoes, and see what was going on that day. The man had quick, deliberate steps, but his eyes were slow and appraising, and his ears were always listening. There was not a thing he couldn't pick up. Somedays, he'd turn to go to the financial district, the sun gleaming off of the spires of the trade cente

The door slams as he leaves for work, With a kiss, she’s alone in their big, new house. She sits with a cup of coffee in a brand new porcelain cup, She’s got a pretty kitchen, comfy bed, and a nice new couch; Isn’t that enough? Isn’t that enough? But the flowers sewn on the couch’s arms Will be rosebuds till she dies, Some days she wonders what it’d be like To bloom open or fly. Little bird sings with a gold band round her neck, Her soft sweet song can barely pass through; “Just let me fly past these gilded, pretty bars Let me just once see the sun or flutter round the stars.” But no one hears