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Wednesday, January 8, 2014


I am a bout of twisting sickness chained to my bedroom. I ache to be above the velvety reach of Venus, inside the pretentious gray lectures of Athena, over the illogical screams and stabs of Mars. I want to be Iris.
With all that color there has to be answers somewhere. Right?
I can't remember whether ethos or pathos is the word I want. My memory sucks.

Read Wentzs book. It was depressing and deep and beautiful and possibly half ghost-written. Gave me a right charge.
All I can do is write, read, and feel. Don't know how ANYONE much less myself is supposed to market that but I guess I'll have to. Getting sick just thinking about it.
Ily
Belinda

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