Quieter Than A Mouse

I never thought of going on a date, and my fear is my cooking would not be good enough for a visitor, even if I never rented out the studio as a restaurant, under the guise of Secret Services related to encryption. Even if one prides themselves on their cooking, one doesn't always want to make money on cooking, so concepts like adjusting the spice level to accommodate normal tastes was out of the question. Like cooking, to many think of writing as a way to earn a living, or as a means of control, as the case with early dystopian novels. Yet the novel of my life is non totalitarian, the oppression of myself. Yet paradoxically more therapeutic than going to Church. You can be horny at your studio, unless you're a priest listening to the bell on New Year's Day.

Ce'est belle!

My life doesn't involve blind allegiance, but lack of loyalty to a fault. So take my flashback with a grain of salt. While you watch the paint of blood dry on the pavement, the stain never going away. It doesn't involve missionary work, except in fantasies of sex. For this girl borderline inter sex, fantasizing about women in Boston Clogs giving imaginary fellatio under the city lights, like some deranged public sex porno video channel.

Fading starlight, bonne nuit. Au revour, la nuit.

Private journalism can allow you to indulge in kinks that would otherwise be socially non kosher. Indulging on the net was decidedly bleak, like old rotten teak. The city life has times in the year for Christmas Trees and dropping New Year Crystals, I liked them up all year to remind me of yet another year I haven't attempted suicide, among my multitudes of suicide attempts across my twenty seventh year.

Crystal Balls with Funeral gowns of earlier times, I danced to music of the damned. A soft music box playing at the end of the 18th century as it paves its way to the 21st in a retro futuristic blend of realities, to women losing their heads on Guillotines. Themselves immigrating from the Netherlands wearing wooden shoes, briefly switching to fancier heels, returning to the Earth at the cut of a blade in their clogs. Lustful executions, the lust of the dead. The lust for dirty blond pigtailed heads on revolutionary sticks. Yet now the revolutions of the next one hundred years are quieter.

Quieter than a mouse.

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