Real McCoy.

it's the ripe hours of morning in which visionary prose births itself into a somatic form. gazing at this glowing thing opposite myself, i see the silhouette of some enthusiastic hair displayed against the wall. i want to go to bed. but i can't. i have 55-question test to take; it involves "critical reading" thus i'm a bit apprehensive to allowing slumber overcome me. a panorama of things in my peripheral vision include:

hats

closet door

business cards

my wardrobe

speakers

55-question test involving "critical reading"

2nd place trophy

doctor's note

latex-free rubber gloves, courtesy of the hospital under which my grandmother is residing

tape.

i'm sporting a strapless red dress; my hair focuses on one side of my head, the other side is pinned back. hair is fashioned in loose black curls, although the overall color is indistinguishable; some locks are black, some contains flecks of gold, some unfortunately look of dark green; i'm just waiting a few more weeks before i drastically change it all again. wrists are bare. jewelry lacks presence everywhere but upon my right ring finger: my mother's engagement & wedding rings. i have mascara on and whatever humble blush leftover from the day. my eyes are bloodshot. gross. i need my eye dropz.

* * *

i question myself everyday, how far i can go. what lengths i'll take to get what i want. and what do i want? i want that sensation of the senses, the awe-inspiring gush of reaction to push me down. to knock my socks off. to make me fall head over heels, whichever niggling expression suits--i want that action and reaction i used to have.

anyway. goodnight.

ps. look at these darling photos i stumbled upon.