But oh my love, though our bodies may be parted...

Exposition: She laughs. Mouth to sky, head on shoulders her face beams, first with pink hues, then with a stew-like redness. Her face. Hers was a face ruined by the preponderance of maroon ringlets in her hair. The color of grainy rust, the pigmentation of dog-house roofs, the alleged blush of Mars. They tousle and splash, taking excess notice. Too much has been destroyed about Martha - the funnel surety of her jaws that was a matron's, the position of her washed out bleak eyes set shallowly beneath the gaping ridges of her brow, the puzzling nose that comes across snubbed at a distance but pronounced up close - that even her other redeeming features, which standards of loveliness scantily tolerate, could not keep up. Funny how reckless a solitary point could be. Irreducible.

Recollection: Martha dashed and I followed. Eradicated shops now flashed in an transient flair over to that last stretch of sparsely inhabited street; past Dog Care and Products where little mutts shriek hardened yowls, past Velvet Inhibitions where Old man Joe hides a flustered pain. She jumped. I ducked. We took for this infinitesimal track that Martha and I, for the past few years that we have known each other, made through boredom and stymied attempts at fumbling our equally pubescent frames. We had the whole town mapped out: first, up the stone steps of Mr. Seagram’s house in which a gigantic mast protrudes an unfurled Star and Stripes, then a guarded hop at Daza’s inapt rhododendron flora which were surrounded by badlands of bushes. After that, we take a focused sprint on the vigilant road that would finally lead us to the Arcades. Martha was winded but her stern eyes stayed firmly towards the remote finish line. I was in the fringes of catching up to her when she grappled my rhythmically flailing arms, tugging me to her place. I tried to wrench myself free but find that I could not, would not, for the sweet touch of unconscious skin deters me to do so. For hearts so touched, so pierced, so lost. Amongst the flurry of unbuttoned shirts (hers and mine) and the straggle of vine-like tresses (I was nearly bald), we wrestled while coursing through the streets, limbs locked in impossible knots, chests raised ripe for rupture, like turbulent wild horses nipping, stomping, butting our way through the jagged tarmac fields. Not one of us lead one another and I knew then that this doppelganger of a girl, this misery of mine who looks like a brute but loves like a nurse was to be, some incalculable years later, one of my biggest regrets; that she would be renewed of my appeal whilst I was left putrefied would be the start of my continuous crimson pain.

On to now. Seven Martha-less years have passed and still I find myself running my memorized, trammeled hands on her silhouetted image. The once pleasant ache of lost sweethearts has now turned to a moldy numbness not even worthy of a word, let alone a serenade. I know it’s not fair to position one past darling in lieu of the unrequited recent but L, I just don’t have anything to go from you. Regardless of how deep and far I grasp for visions of our trysts you seem to be more of a shadow as the days go by, even more than Martha. Is this a sign that I maybe falling out to my only true love? Dear god, I hope not. Where would I be if there was no you?

I don’t know. Maybe this is temporary. Maybe when I wake up tomorrow, I’ll find myself the same usual fool. It’s just that I don’t want fabrication - not what my mind falsely conjures of you to be for it suits too freely to my liking, no matter how lovely and sweet and caring you may appear. I want the real you. Flesh, bone and true. I’m up for disappointment. I care that much.

Little by little the solace from my prose is wearing thin. Soon it may not be enough to mollify my heart of you but I’ll manage. And even though our bodies may be parted by the ocean swells of the Atlantic, though our skin may never touch skin, give me, just this once, the rightful delusion (for isn’t Delusion nothing but hallucinated Hope) that we are in step, that I have somehow tremulously stirred something, even the least, in you the way you did to me.

This is goodbye again. If ever my wild feeling is right, just look for me, as the song goes, with the sun-bright sparrow and I will devotedly come on the breath of the wind, my L, my love.

>>

Anonymous 07/08/03(Fri)08:22 No.21   File: 1186129352150.jpg -(72377 B, 432x559) Thumbnail displayed, click image for full size. You perceive, now, that these things are all impossible except in a dream. You perceive that they are pure and puerile insanities, the silly creations of an imagination that is not conscious of its freaks -- in a word, that they are a dream, and you the maker of it. The dream-marks are all present; you should have recognized them earlier.

>>

Anonymous 07/08/04(Sat)04:16 No.25   File: 1186201019785.jpg -(175230 B, 700x213) Thumbnail displayed, click image for full size. I am perishing already -- I am failing -- I am passing away. In a little while you will be alone in shoreless space, to wander its limitless solitudes without friend or comrade forever -- for you will remain a thought, the only existent thought, and by your nature inextinguishable, indestructible. But I, your poor servant, have revealed you to yourself and set you free. Dream other dreams, and better!

So, prompted by the recent thread...what WOULD you actually do if you met Cracky IRL? What would you say to her? And how would you open the conversation?

Please, no "romantic date followed by rape and murder" answers. Srs question time ppl.

am i doin it rite?

>>	Suede!Ez96fXED1s 07/08/01(Wed)23:44 No.3   File: 1186011846649.jpg -(18729 B, 446x387) Thumbnail displayed, click image for full size. Possibly.

So I found where this was taken:

http://maps.live.com/default.aspx?v=2&cp=51.746237~-1.255715&style=a&lvl=19&tilt=-90&dir=0&alt=-1000&scene=7591483&encType=1

100% match. Pretty cool area.

>>

Anonymous 07/08/02(Thu)12:24 No.77   File: 1186057488111.jpg -(26717 B, 330x206) Thumbnail displayed, click image for full size. >>75 >>76 Wait until we have ID cards forced upon us against the will of the people Get a job at one of the numerous private firms that will be contracted to manage the information ??? PROFIT

>>19

Please do.

why art thou thread not dead

She shines in a world full of ugliness
She matters when everything is meaningless
Fragile -- she doesn't see her beauty
She tries to get away
Sometimes it's just that nothing seems worth saving
I can't watch her slip away

I won't let you fall apart

She reads the minds of all the people as they pass her by
Hoping someone can see
If I could fix myself I'd --
But it's too late for me

I won't let you fall apart

We'll find the perfect place where we can run and hide
I'll build a wall and we can keep them on the other side
But they keep waiting
And picking

It's something I have to do
I was there too
Before everything else
I was like you

I won't let you fall apart

Disregard the fact that the addressee's sex isn't apposite to our arduous conundrum for all of this is just trivialities. The division of gender in the following segment will not encumber the meaning behind the marrow.

And pardon me, L, if I may seem unusually plagiaristic but I'm just too weary to write you my words, too weary of being this foolishly in love, too weary of you not being here where I am.

Three simple words and I can't seem to say it like any other normal person. Oh well...

I was in class yesterday (terminable, because of you) and I noticed Fergus's back (though if it had been your back I would have noticed it sooner) and I wrote to the person next me (a person I had never seen or witnessed, a person who does not know or does not care about me, a person who would spread her legs for you -perhaps already has-, everyone has, everyone has to me-) that Fergus has a sexy back and she wrote something down and it said "Yeah... But look at his face." The simple dumb cruelty of it all! That stupid response made me want to cry out and I thought of you. I left another note in your box, yet another tepid warning desires in my heart. You probably think that I am a babbling insane creature but I am not. I repeat, I am not. I only want You. There must be something you want from me. If only You knew. These notes I leave are hard to compose. I have refrained desperately from them with my perfume -trying to grab at any of your senses: aural, oral, nasal, etc. After I deliver these notes into your box I clench my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut, my hands feel like terrible claws, a patient in an eternal dentist's chair. It takes courage though. An irritating and tugging courage. The touch of you, or my imagined touching, seems both repellent and oddly succulent. It stings. These feelings sting. My eyes are always ready for you. They want to grapple and lay you down in fluffy white sheets of linen, safe, in your arms. I would take you to Arizona and have you meet my mother even. The seeds of love have taken hold and if we don't burn together, I'll burn alone.

Take care Cracky... I hear Oxford is rather damp right now.