romanticism's photostream

Why is 11:11 the time to make a wish?
I make wishes all the time, 1:47, 8:29, 12:51; midnight, sunrise;
with dandelions, with shooting stars, with birthday candles;
with nothing at all but the closing of eyes and curling of fists.

(my scanner is broken, so I present a rather unfortunate photograph of a photograph.
Disposable cameras are such fun to use - bear with me as I attempt to locate particular entries of my photographic diary)

(do you believe in magic)

(i love you)

She looked up, at the moon's waxy glow:
how she longed to be impervious to night, to all.
Pressed for time, she whispered to her fingertips,
tucking the words away (with all the others) as soon as they fell out:
"I have become the flotsam and jetsam found upon sea; emotional wreckage being pulled out by life’s continuous tides."
And an open window called, heavy with longing and mournful with dust
the winds arrived and swept the room: her breath danced amongst shadows.
Danced right out the room, she was flying, she was gone.

"I am no longer forgotten."