Episode Two: Which isn’t a fish but lives in the sea, so than it must be the fish of the day

Yo

Haven’t heard from you in a LOOOOONG time

I be dying here
school is KILLING me

Nietzsche is EATTING my soul
I hate work

I am apathetic
It’s less than fun

But I’ll survive–I made it through CR

Hope turkey day with boy was fun
Maybe I’ll see you post December 18th

Time flies and I’m going no where
I am delirious with fever, high on exhaustion, and (per usual) unable to spell

I feel and think so much I might explode
but still I manage to stand (if not on my feet than my hands, if not on my reason than on my reserves).

C’est la vie.
Something IS rotten in the state of (dis) Den-mark: we need philosophers who are POETS

I’m still scouring for the apple tree: so looked for but not heard.

Silver does lie hidden in the core of dreams—and easily cracked like eggs, but slippery and hard to hold like the yolk.
Someday, be it my dying day or not, I’d like to say Vissi d’ arte…

yet in this unreal city
living for art is like searching for Parsifal’s famed punch-glass.

The leitmotifs echo in the foreground—but the dissonance overpowers.

I cannot wait for Christmas vacation.

 

 

Khan-a,

Oh Khany. Yes it has been some time. Thanksgiving and Cornish game hens were lovely, though boy could not be present as his schedule and bank account would not allow it. It was a nice trip nonetheless.

The Southwest is a collection of extravagant views over decorated by strip malls. The air is dry and the dogs rule the cities from their dusty backyards. They don’t seem like pets at all, but I suppose in the desert things are different, water scarcer, wolves a bit wilder.

Right now, I’m trying to get through the rest of my classes, finishing projects up and figuring out the future. This semester has been very good for me. I think I shed a bit of worry, that pinch of elitism.

I am ok though. Ok I am. I’m getting a little antsy pansy about Bobby returning home and the finish of the semester, but these things will come in time. I can’t believe how fast everything moves—not is moving: moves.  It spins by I can only capture it in the present tense—no present progressive or immediate past present. As long as I can remember this feeling, hopefully my decisions will be more on track; remembering always that there is but one life…the mermaids get three hundred years, K! All we get is an immortal soul…OR DO WE. If you go before me, write me a postcard, let me know. The reverse will of course be true.

 

There is much ahead and much behind, I guess the trouble is focusing on the area in between. Tell me about things and I’ll see you.

Farewell,

Miss Merry Marca

 

 
   
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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