Random.

As I hold Dobby close, I hear a whispering through my ears, like wind through trees, like a winter breeze.. Never grow up.. Never grow old.. Forever a child It rings through my head, and I keep Dobby close.
Inspiration fills me, to write strange poetry, poetry with beauty and detail, in such an original form. Poetic ramblings of toothpaste foamed spit hitting the porcelain white sink, make the simplist things seem beatiful, suddenly a goal.

I run fingers across my left hand, and something feels missing. The ring, as if I had just been wearing it, I can feel it's absense, absense of the closure around my left ring finger. Around my neck rests a necklace, but an unfamiliar one, not the right one, not the round locket I had once refused to ever take off, for more than five months. Absent..

Description, side affects of procrastination fills me. A restless energy, easily irritated.

"Your dog's dead. It's motionless, I don't hear a heartbeat"
"Well I can hear it"
"You can't hear me with your headphones, yet you can hear Dobby's heartbeat?"
"Dobby has a big heart" *laughs*
--

*sighs* Sunday makes me sad.. My inspiration fades and I'm left with an empty, fearful feeling. A feeling of chance, risk, worry worry worry. Worry for all I've forgotten, all the mistakes, all that will come tomorrow. Mondays scare me. Sundays sadden me.

April 17th - I sit and watch the soft spirals and breath in deeply, watching as the smoke seeps up back towards the ceiling, dipping down occasionally to twist around the light of the lamp. I sigh, rearranging my fingers on the typewriter, trying to adjust again to a different way of writing. I watch now, as the incense burns down, the purple streaming down into a red-hot glowing grey, like an hourglass slowly dripping the seconds.. I stare at two pale hands, well kept, an amethyst ring on the left ring finger. A pale amethyst, well fitted with pale fingers. Violet, lilac, nearly clear.. Like water, touched with a drop of purple dye, hardly visible. The amethyst is round, and is set in by itself, held in by gold, sitting among what looks to be roots, or even fingers. Simple soft hands rest, almost awkwardly, against the black keys.. And a faint glitter touches the fingertips.