tiles and, fever sets free and

so a few days pass and i guess i've been participating. i miss chelsea, the word 'participation' makes me think of her...she would know why. but i write this, tired and strange. i can hear my throat clicking, the slow flare of paralysis. but i am not unhappy...i've been happy. so this is just the violence of the dreamer, starved for sleep.

i need to write some things... i've got these ideas, ridiculous and bold.

but something is blocking me... and i can only think of articles. but they accredit it all to depression, and i'd like to think of it as a need for sleep. there is a choice there.

there will be more.

(i still feel that photography makes me less happy than it is intended to. you turn your eyes on me, and i am a shifting line of sparks. you need to look a little softer.)

p.s. keane's new EP, night train, colours this. the shadows are sad, but they buck.

'cos when your back's against the wall, that's when you show no fear at all.