Eaten any watermelons lately?

~A list to celebrate my 100th blog post~

Hello!
This post is my one hundredth blog entry-
One HUNDREDTH?
No lie! And as such, I just spent two whole minutes trying to work out how to spell 'hundredth', because I'll be damned if I'm relying on spell-checker.
You stubborn winker. 
(I did use spell checker.. I don't have time to sit around and spell words. This the MODERN AGE people).
;)
Anyway, I feel that there are things I should be doing in life that I am currently not doing. So I have decided to make a list in honour of this momentous occasion-
Did you? A WHOLE list? OF THINGS TO DO?
Yes. This is correct.
What a feat, if I dare say so-
Best you didn't
Trying out a new phase perhaps?
You should make a list, too-
Me? I am perfectly organised-
I saw a mouse this morning.
... yes... that was planned.
Planned, hmm?
Entirely. Extremely on purpose.
I see.
So on purpose, in fact, that I let you find it. Had it  been accidental, you would never have laid your lazy little eyes on it.
Dear me, Dragon. I think you're losing your edge.
Never!
Most extremely. Now...
Just wait one minute!-
Moving on...


THE LIST

# Run everyday- whether a light jog, full on pelt because the fear of numb toes propels you forwards into a hyperventilating frenzy, or just a casual walk in some fancy attire to attract the male gaze. Just exercise it and do it outside where the wind blows and the sun shines and the energy is nigh. (And avoid the 'attracting of the male gaze' on account of that you are currently taken. ... Yes. Remember this. (Although, if the male gaze really is attracted to my sweaty uncoordinated leg movements, undignified flapping of track pants, rhythmic ponytail swinging into face and annoyed grapple of Ipod to change song because I'm too lazy to update workout playlist, well! Who am I to refuse?!))

# Do ten push ups and ten sit ups everyday. Record this if you feel necessary and post on instagram or facebook. But mostly instagram. Actually avoid facebook. You know too many people on there. Actually, avoid posting it anywhere at all. Evidence of this atrocity does not need to exist.

# Drink two bottles of water a day. This is hard! The urge to pee is uncomfortable and at times inappropriate, but the water still has to be consumed to get all that brain matter working! The vibes must be happy and moist!
~Yes. In all seriousness, you feel 100 per cent ready to take on the world when you're hydrated. Consistently hydrated. None of this: two bottles in five hours then two days of nothing but coffee and wine nonsense. Or in my case: two hours of three glasses of water and then two days of five coffees each. THIS MUST END. HYDRATION WILL COMMENCE.

# Eat more fruit and vegetables and avoid preservatives. This is the hardest thing to do ever when it comes to health. I'm sure. When shopping previously for only healthy, natural foods, I came home with fruit, vegetables, frozen vegetables, oats, eggs, nuts and bread. A day later I was like 'TWISTIES! MY LOVE! WHERE FORT ART THOU???' and I raced down to pick up my love, along with a tub of ice cream and some yoghurt, as well as some rice crackers and a dip of choice, some muesli bars, frozen quiche, a container of fruit juice and some peanut butter.
Eat 80/20. That's all I will say. And let the 20 be once a week. For myself, I'd like to go back to the old days when my grandparents were alive and try to eat like them because the people in the movies and posters back (even though in movies and posters) had different body shapes compared with us today. I feel as though they had more respect for food and belongings as well.
~I'd like to make a shopping list, stick to it every week, get the financials in order, and make the whole shopping experience a routine down pat.

# Finish watching tv shows. These include, Gilmore Girls, Supernatural and Grey's Anatomy. Gilmore Girls will be easy because I'm halfway through season six and there are only seven seasons. Grey's Anatomy I'm only up to season four and there are twelve seasons! Supernatural I'm at season one. So. Yes.
Do that.

# Continue with my children's book. Now when I say continue, I mean sort out a story board for each page, work out illustrations, size, take to editor/publisher, etc, and get the whole ball rolling. Become famous! Take over the world, somehow, with books for children! Wear a tiara! Fly! Command someone to build a skyscraper of myself in a dressing gown and carrying a coffee cup, hair ruffled, squinty-eyed, stained slippers, maybe half a yawn, in memory of how I am and what it takes to be brilliant such as me! Even though I will still be alive.

# Continue with my novel. Yes, I have a novel. It is in progress, and has been for about eight years, which I think is natural for a novel. The theme is fantasy and in my head I have planned most of the story, the ending, beginnings and interweaving of the five characters lives, and on paper I have written the characters profiles and parts of scenes. However, as with age comes adultness. I have adulted. I am now without such time for spontaneous writings and drawings, and as much as this saddens me, I declare sorrowfully that study and work have become a big part of my life at the present. Nursing does not allow for fantasies. It is a degree of study, preparation, facts, planning, and responsibilities. But aside from this, I would like to look over it whenever I feel slightly bored or wandering thoughts, to remember and perhaps get back into it again.

# Continue with my fairy drawings. You must do this woman! There is no greater magic on this earth, I believe, than creating. As true love is a thing hard to find, I am skeptical. I believe few people find it. So that magic is rare. But creating anything, whether it be cakes, furniture, clothes, paintings, movies, etc, involves imagination and ideas, determination to work through the difficult parts, and a will to make it all come about in the end. I personally always feel so content when I'm drawing fairies. I feel as though I have purpose in life, even if I'm just creating a lamely drawn person with no hands.
~Do what makes you come alive! You will spread the magic!

# Buy more clothes. I don't like shopping in general and for a long time I was saving up to buy a house. As I have recently made my dream come true by purchasing a house, I believe I can now spend some money on clothes. This means nice clothes! A jacket would be nice, for one! Seeing as how I left my last one in a pub! Amen.

# Learn French, Japanese and German. The urge for German has probably passed for now, though, and Japanese is a meh one, but French would be delightful. This means actually putting languages on your Ipod and listening to them, actually saying them, doing this daily and regardless of people listening. Talking to people in your newfound language. Ordering food in the foreign tongue and confusing the wait staff. YOU CAN DO THIS. YOU WILL RULE.
~Maybe you shouldn't have had that last coffee?

# Attempt pottery and play the guitar. Buy the guitar. Enrol in a pot-making course. Wrap it up, lady. This list is too long.
# Start playing volleyball. #Sign up at a martial arts class.
# Continue making jewellery. # Sell jewellery. # Start a jewellery business.
# Continue growing vegetables and fruit. # Upload photos of these fruits and vegetables.
# Finish my Nursing degree and find a job as a nurse who takes blood, such as Clinpath.
# Sew clothes. # Buy a sewing machine. # Do all the sewing. # Continue knitting for the homeless. # Actually finish a blanket to give to the homeless.

AAAAAAAND, that's a wrap.
Thank goodness! I thought you'd never stop.
One hundredth post... dreams...
Keep at them.


~No dream is too big, you just have to become the person the dream challenges you to be.

Is phlegm acceptable?

Winston met Earl on a freezing cold, terribly windy day and there was nothing Earl could do about it.

“Chilly! Isn’t it but?!” called out Winston.

“I am never again having five coffees in a day!” Earl cried in reply.

“Hmmm,” Winston pondered. He came within arm-swinging distance of Earl and stopped, standing tall and a bit blurry around the edges on the footpath. Earl squinted. Why was this chap blurry? Was he a ghost? “Are you a coffee addict?” Winston asked curiously. He watched Earl narrow his eyes, open them, narrow, then open, and he suddenly knew exactly why this man should not consume more than one standard caffeinated drink per twenty eight hours.

“Are you- are you non-existent?” Earl grumbled rather like an old and grumpy man who had to ask for his afternoon tea biscuits rather than have his needs being pre-empted.

Winston chuckled, his gloved hand rising slightly to his face as if to hide his amusement. “I believe I am existing. At least for now.”

“Eh,” Earl blinked and took a step back, tilting his head away and looking down his nose. “Nup!” he declared immediately, “I do not see it! You are not a man with edges at all.”

“Well now...” Winston thought about edges and men and coffee stains on the couch. “That is a very forward thing to say. I trust it has something to do with your caffeine addiction, then.”

Earl said, “Eh?!” in a defensive way. “I am neither an addict nor a liar!”

“How many coffee-type drinks have you had today?” Winston asked. He took his top hat off and looked around for a place to sit as he feared this would take a while.

Earl, meanwhile, was peering at his own hands. He had never encountered such a fluffy human. He wondered how this fellow came to be this way and why he didn’t realise his time was, surely, definitely, indisputably, almost up. His own hands were wrinkled and tan, his nails slightly off-colour and short, and there were smudges of yellow around his finger pads. Nothing blurry about them.

“So…” Winston prompted and Earl looked up to see that the man had seated himself on the ground.

“The ground sir!” Earl cried in outrage. “Have you never heard of a chair?”

Winston placed his hat in his lap and looked up expectantly. “You were just about to tell me a long and winding and probably tiny bit boring tale of how you came to be an addict.”

“And you were about to tell me the short and serious and most horrendously unfunny tale of how you became this blurry ground-sitting nincompoop of a gentleman!” Earl raised a fist and shook it at nothing, really, with a glare at this silly man.

“Shall I go first?” Winston asked.

“Oh, do!” Earl all but shouted.

Winston sighed softly, lost in an apparent blissful memory, "It all started with a cough…” 

How can I rearrange these letters?

She laughed. "Tomlin! You're going too fast!"

He glanced behind him lazily with a grin, "Ah now, Ambriel! Come on! Catch up!"

They laughed together but she didn't catch up. He was just too fast.

"Oh," Tomlin stopped suddenly. "Let's get a pastry!"

Ambriel nearly bumped into him but managed to side-step and only hit his shoe with her own. 

"No," she said, a little breathless. "I want a party!"

"A party!" Tomlin scorned, breathing heavily also. "Darling, that's madness."

"But that is what I want."

They both stood at the bakery and stared into the window at the shelves full of cakes and pies. 

"They're so fat," groaned Ambriel.

"You will be too if you keep eating them," he said, and to prove his point, Tomlin poked her stomach. She sighed. "I am. They will have to saw me right down the middle soon, just so I can fit through the doorway."

"How about we get one and share it?" 

"Yes."

But they never did because Tomlin dropped it from the bridge when they went to oversee a family of ducks, and the ducks scattered, afraid, and Tomlin said half-heartily, "Ah well, it wasn't a good stew."

They watched the brown paper bag float in the river for a while imagining all sorts of hidden surprises inside until that became boring and Ambriel sat on cross-legged on the ground. 

She twisted her straw hat in her delicate hands. "It's not real straw," she told Tomlin. "Did you know they don't make hats out of real straw nowadays?"

Tomlin said, "No, I heard a rumour at the college, but I thought it was just blonde talk."

"It makes me sad."

Ambriel twisted. Tomlin played with the coins in his pockets. "Winter makes me sad," he said.

"I didn't know there was such a thing as fake straw."

"It's all the grey clouds and icy cold fingers and noses. Even with a good stew- even with a fantastic stew," he gave a small, off-beat chuckle, "it's just not a happy time."

"Second told me." Ambriel continued in a sad, depleted tone. "He said Brunei told him that it's cheaper and quicker. I told him that Brunei was an odd man but Second ignored me of course because he has a thing for him, he just about gushes himself every time he gets near. Have you noticed?"

"I can't understand how he works down there, even with the hot chocolate." Tomlin frowned. 

"It's mysterious. Like a lie. They are mysterious things, lies, aren't they. They go on and on and on..." her twisting became faster and it caught Tomlin's eye. He watched the straw spin.

"Sometimes they're small and neat and you can forget them. But others are big and tenacious and creep into the corners of you that you thought were closed and clean and set forever-"

"Ambs," Tomlin swiftly reached down and snatched the hat away. She looked up, startled.

"Lies are bumdust," he said. "Fake hats are bumdust, winter is bumdust and the whole sodded lot is butts, ok? But winter becomes spring and lies become truth eventually, at least the big ones, so let's just go and get some ice cream and sit down under a tree on a plastic table cover so if it falls we can lick it right up, ok?"

She brightened, "Ok!"

He smiled cheekily and said, "I'll give you a five count head start." And he tossed the hat into the river.

Are my ears on straight?

"You were so clever, Ambrant," she said sorrowfully.
"I still am!" sobbed Ambrant, clutching his waistcoat at the front as if it didn't have any buttons and he was forced to keep it closed by hand.
The ethereal woman with too much hair lit a purple crystal. Ambrant coughed. She raised it to her lips as if to smoke it and crossed one leg over the other at the knee.
"No," she said, blowing out electric green smoke. "You were."
"There's time! Still! I have my- my..." Ambrant flailed wildly, "...my singing!"
She said, "I'd rather hoped you'd come out of this. This..."
"This is nothi-"
"This phase," she raised her eyebrows, and he had to admit, they were divine. "This phase is like the end of things. It is like cold porridge."
Ambrant gasped. "The worst!"
"But," she smiled, "it is also a beginning."
Ambrant stopped. He clutched tighter. Her smile was not a symbol of hope as most were. It did not bring out any rays of warm sunshine or cause the heart to flutter.
"A beginning?" he sniffed, wide-eyed.
"Something to chew on. It requires courage and you have that fine tunic, waiting to be turned."
"My tunic!" Ambrant stifled another sob and clutched so hard he thought his fingernails would tear through the fabric and his fingers would surely cramp.
She blew out another puff of green smoke, to the side, not his face -she was not a rude woman- and watched him quiver. "What one can do with such needlework," she said calmly, almost too calm, as if she was in a trance.
"No, I refuse! It cannot ever be-" He took a step back.
"You refuse."
"Indeed!" Ambrant looked up at at her smooth, porcelain skin, shiny grey eyes and pink lips set under a mass of fluffy white hair. He took a shaky breath and said: "I made this myself. It took me hours! No, it took me days! Days of my time. Accumulated hours that turned into days, yes, that's how long! You are not to have it!"
She blinked. Shook her head slightly from side to side. Said: "I believe I can." And waved her hand that still held the crystal, casually elegant as if it were an afterthought and not some magical intent.
"No!"
The crystal flew out of her grasp. Ambrant watched it scream towards him while the woman turned away to look down her sitting stump. With sickening finality, it seared right through his chest, stabbing it's entrance at the front and shooting out behind with Ambrants heart as it's intended collection.
Ambrant fell, lifeless, and she smiled. "Such fine stitching."

What is my name?

Sometimes things are not as shiny as they seem. They break, crack, are taken forcefully and shaken until they burst.
Sometimes there is no tape or glue that can put these once-shiny, previously wholesome and glittering, historically better things back together.
The future waits for no one.
So I picked up my suitcase and coat, bowed to my plants, and walked away. I walked down the street like all those other people and I waited for relief or release, or maybe I didn't.
Maybe I sat down at the table and pulled out a cigarette, from the new blue packet, stuck it between my lips, flicked the lighter and took a puff. Remembered that smoking was prohibited in the building and stubbed it out. Or maybe I didn't.
Maybe I suited up and powdered down, carried on and shrugged off. Saved it for a rainy day. Wrote a list and threw it from a ten-story building, wishing while watching it float, hating those parts, wanting those parts, remembered my eleven o'clock lunch appointment and turned away.
Or maybe I decided to invite my friendly wizard neighbour over to drink tea and make a potion.
"Bartholomew," I said, clearly and around the bubblegum in my mouth because his attention span was, and still is, appalling. "There is something we need to discuss."
He nodded, a little too gravely for such a situation, and replied, "I fear this has come. Here, have a candescent cupcake." And he pulled out a plate of plump, magnificently whipped, bright blue cupcakes from his jacket.
I declined. Bartholomew nodded as if it all made sense and slid the plate back into his jacket. I felt a tad worried. Just how were those cakes keeping shape?
"I bought those from Gerald-" Bartholomew started seriously.
"The cupid fellow?" I interrupted.
"Yes. The very fellow."
I said, "Look, things are a bit hazy betwee-"
"Hazy or not," Bartholomew rumbled calmly like a still pond at midnight, "disregarding the haze-"
"Oh, no... there was haze. There was actual haze, it was the required pink and fluffy, mostly softly-spoken and occasionally fragrant-free. There were times it was not fragrant-free, and those times were some long winters."
"So there was haze."
"Yes."
"I see."
"Can you? The haze is only visible to those involved in it."
"No, I meant figuratively."
"Oh, right, I see."
"I do not believe you can."
"No, I meant-"
"Of course."
I stopped and reconsidered things. All things. I sat and thought about time and space, the sound of a baby's laugh, water flowing through a hose, toe-stubbing, worm-farming, tongue-curling. You know, the important things.
In this time Bartholomew took a shower. He sang long, curly songs about romantic stars and dyed his hair an off-shade of red. Then he straightened my eighteen paintings that were straight to start with, mended his undergarments, taught my tangerines to love, and wrote a book on the unique and under-appreciated life of pigeons and their need for thick-rimmed glasses.
"...as there have been many sad yet slow-moving stories about the mending of such glass..."
I put an end to all the considering so I could exercise my goodwill as a host. I asked placidly: "Is there really someone who makes and mends glasses for pigeons?"
Bartholomew said, "I haven't a clue."
I frowned, "You just wrote a book on them! An entire book! And bored me to death with thirteen chapters!"
"You weren't paying the slightest attention, dear neighbour."
"I most certainly was attention-paying!"
"How much did you pay?"
"What?"
Bartholomew stared at me from over his tattered and stained book. Had he spilled something on it already? "I paid all of it!"
"I charge three-hundred dollars a page," he said with a flourish of his hand.
"You ask too much." I snapped. I might have been a little tired from such a long day, but I might have also been annoyed at the antics of such a wise-looking man. So wise and all he had to was look. Could life be more unfair?
"Young one," he started in a seriously gentle manner as he closed his book and set it down. "Young one. I wrote a book about pigeons years ago-"
"Years?!" I spluttered.
"-foolish, devoted wholly to the well-being of things smaller than myself (yes that means you, too. How do you think you came to have such abundant fruit trees?). But I came to realise, upon a brilliant, financially well-to-do, semi-retired midnight star that such things cannot be the essence of my days. There has to be a spark in my child-like soul. Helping the small things does not, and did not, light that flame."
I put a hand up in the pause gesture. "Ok, Bartemus. Tell me straight. Just how long have I been sitting here?"
I was fearful. Don't get me wrong. I may have oozed total calm and elegant chic sophistication, but deep down I was wondering how many times this sort of thing had been going on. "Have you done this before?" I asked in a hushed voice around the gaping hole of growing horror. "Have I been sitting here like this millions and millions of times before without knowing it? Has the generation grown? Is there still life outside?"
Bartholomew shook his head. "Korban-"
"My name's Cerri."
"-there is life out there. It might be a slight flicker and it might only belong to the zombies who shamefully shuffle as if listening to a mediocre dubstep beat, but it is there."
He smiled.
I said with heavy disdain, "Zombies?"
"In the flesh."
"Ok, now. Listen. You straightened my pictures, thank you, but only you didn't straighten them you just tilted them because your glasses are crooked and tilting, so fix that. You look demented. Secondly, I now wake up at night to talking fruit having full-blown arguments in my kitchen, and it took me a long time to figure out that you switched my coffee with onion root powder. Thanks again for that. I walked down main street and people cried-"
"Ahh yes," Bartholomew chuckled. "The memories..."
"AND! I'm almost one hundred percent certain that you bewitch yourself into my dreams and make it look like a sitcom, you know, where you're sitting cross-legged on a stool in high suede pants and a striped blouse and suddenly you look at me and say something stupid and confusing like 'Krystal would just CRACK HER CHINA if she knew this' followed by a cheesy, knowing smile. And I wake up mad  because I never find out what those people 'would want to know'. These dreams are terrifying and I feel personally assaulted." I glare at him.
"I'm sure I have no idea what you're little brain is concerned about. Trust me, Kurtus, I have a trillion other things to be doing than wear suede in your dreams."
"I'm Cerri."
"However..." he looked at me thoughtfully, tapping his chin. "I will need to invade your dreams on the ninth of June. You have a big day on the tenth, yes? And I feel personally involved."
"You're not," I assured him. "I have nothing that day."
"You have a test."
"Yes."
"A test of courage! Of endurance! Of releasing potential!"
"Possibly."
"So! Let us play a game!" and he whipped out a large orange box of Mad Tent from his jacket. And his eyes were twinkling, his face set in concentration as he read the five-foot-long rule-book, his knees poking holes in it, his body tensed with eagerness and excitement. I sighed and took off the lid.


Or maybe I didn't.

With so many choices, what could go wrong?

"I can tell you those chimes- those ones there, the green ones, yes, those... those are lies."
I stared.
"Yes," she said, and stood. Brushed her skirts as if they had accumulated dust in her short visit to the stool. Smiled.
I felt a pinch in my chest and it made me step forwards quickly. "I am terribly sorry to intrude where it is unseemly for me to do so, but if I may, er, have another moment...?"
The woman watched me as I spoke. It was uncomfortable. I felt as though my mouth was moving too fast, or at a pace with which my words were not able to keep, therefore rendering me a babbling fool. But she continued to smile at me kindly and sat once more when I finished.
"Teraverr," she said as she arranged her skirts and straightened her back. "You are the most clean-shaven man I have ever met."
I blushed. "Thank you, ma'am. Can I-"
"However," she continued, "can you tell the difference between shaving cream and a razor?"
I blinked. "Ma'am?"
"Goodness! Teraverr, call me Holly. I am far too young to be a 'ma'am', and also, stop calling people ma'am. And stop slouching! That's it."
I am ashamed to say that I straightened when she told me so. The lace trim on her dress was rather fetching, all sparkly in its golds and silvers and hideously faded greens. Whoever had sewn on the green lace, well, let's just say they were probably working in an underground mine wearing sunglasses and singing distractedly along to Sporty Hump.
"Yes, thank you," I replied hurriedly, aware that she would need refreshments and a suitable reason for her to stay. I had none. I had only wanted to witness her sparkly dress in full earnest, for another few minutes, up-close to my eye, but not so close as to cause alarm, maybe touch... is that too much to ask? Was I being rash? Daring? Was I being a- a scoundrel?
I gasped and was unable to hide it or pretend it something other than an audible malfunction of my human emotion.
"Teraverr, are you alright?"
"Ma- err Holly, I mean, yes! I-I am well."
I turned and my eyes searched the cluttered room.
"Yes, well..." Holly made a noise as if she were fidgeting behind me. "You seem awfully tense. Have you been sleeping?"
Oh! The bags under my eyes! Were they so visible?
"Madam, I assure you with all my sureness and pleasure- not that I am pleasurable!" I added in haste. "I am certain that there are a number of unp-"
"You are beside yourself with nerves. Come sit."
Finally, I saw it. The red kettle. I lunged forwards with all my weight and slammed the teapot onto the stove top as if putting out a large spider with an enormous encyclopedia.
"Teraverr!" Holly cried.
"Got it!" I called out in triumph for no reason whatsoever, and I turned to face the alarmed, wide-eyed (enchantingly beautiful) woman standing with her hands clutched in front of her.
"Got what?" she asked, trying to peer around me.
"Everything," I said gaily- oh how gay it was. I was in a state of madness. Somehow giddy with a feeling of how divine it is to make tea. "Everything and anything!" I cried.
Holly frowned and I knew it was one of concern. She worried so much about the little things. How I should wish to scoop her up and  dance with her across the room, proclaiming in a hearty voice "nothing is such a worry, dear Holly, that we cannot dance it all away!".
Madness, indeed.
Instead, I lit the stove and grabbed teacups and saucers from the cupboard, altogether too hard and too fast so they all spilled out before me in a broken mess. My hands are obscurely too big; the fingers long but also wide, the palms as big as, why, as big as saucers! And I have never seen a saucer try to pick up another saucer, but I fear it would fail miserably. Perhaps that is why all saucers come decorated in pretty patterns, so as to keep them occupied with beauty and distract them from their utter uselessness.
"Teraverr? Are you sure you are well? You've gone rather pale."
"Yes... I do..."
"Here, let me..."
Holly came and knelt down beside me and started gathering the pieces into her skirt.
"Oh you mustn't!" I cried in a fit of anguish that was most probably more like horror. Yes. I would say it was. I was horrified at this breach of trust that had just transpired between us. I regret to say that I reached out one of my lumbering hands to pick out the pieces from Holly's dress, and she slid backwards, scattering the pieces around us like strands of cat hair.
"You are bold!" Holly declared, staring at me hard in the face.
I averted my gaze. Perhaps I was bold. Perhaps I was a forward man who thought nothing of taking broken china from a young lady's lap in a cozy, romantic setting. Perhaps I would have lit a fire with my telepathy powers, had I been born with such a gift or acquired it from a three penny wishing well. But I, Teraverr, was proud to be that man.
"Madam," I said as I stood up slowly. "The colour of your lace is wrong, yes! It is! Furthermore, you can make your own tea!"
And I strode out of my antiquities parlor as if born a new man, checking my pocket watch to discover that I still had time to purchase an ice-cream of my choosing down the street.

~

Would you need me if I told you what I'd become?

I was disappearing in plain sight
I'm gonna ask you to look away.
A revelation in the light of day- no light
The sky's not blue and it hurts to pray.

You can't choose what fades
I'm gonna ask you to look away.
There's no light, in the light of day
A broken life will never stay.

It's a conversation, some kind of revelation
I'm gonna ask you to look away.
The daylight so violent and a thousand faces
I'd do anything but it's so hard to say.


~ Somewhere a clock is ticking