'magic is only skin deep, these days' she said.

sitting alone, surrounded by hard beats and breaking glass, music boxes crashing down stairs and then being axed.

such aural assault lends itself to thinking...

'take the blackest spell and tie it around my little finger' she said.

i am the last of my house here. they are all gone, now. memory lends such things nostalgia, or perhaps nostalgia lends such things vibrant memory. we are hardly, if ever, aware of history. portentous events only happen in hindsight. you cannot be aware of the memory of a great day if you are mentally recording it as such.

'look. look at the sky falling with such violence. if only these eyes could do the same.' she said.

walking through the black slick streets, watching people talking to themselves. when did the switch happen? are you talking to yourself or on a cell phone? what is the difference...('not as much as you might think' says the voice that calls me at these times, when i am walking alone on those same cold, dark, glittering streets.)

i can ask you no more. would it be any different if i demanded? i find a certain boring arrogance in demands, a weakness perhaps. people should just fall to your will, without (too) many words being spoken. the artistry lies in making them believe they do it of their own volition.

'volition. to violate in the most intrusive, not to say intimate way.' she said.

never mess with a beautiful girl who mixes her metaphors.

the dark underbelly of a given city is almost always (i never say always, i never say never. never fall into the trap of exclusion) more instructive then the civilized front. this city has such a cold, permeating darkness.

if you fall to the devil here, you fall alone.

'turn a blind ear, vacillate between if you will. touch me not! observation contaminates.'