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There's this strange atmosphere around... borrowed memories... Its as if I've adopted the air of the green tinge before a dramatic summer storm... the faint smell of potpurri... obsidan and summer petals, the oak tree being felled by the insensitive husband, images from someone elses story... a wilted daffodil in the penciled image of anothers artwork, of a personal story... small little votive gifts of childhood lying scattered around, borrowing a sense of summer childhood... I really put my foot in it with a story I wrote, I hadn't realised till it was too late, till it struck a raw nerve, how much I'd borrowed without even realising it... I can't quite grasp reasons or even sometimes where they are coming from... these wilted summer petal memories... that are not mine... but feel so strong... stronger than my own... that it seems as if they are...