in the grey room, we are not allowed to sleep. there are bangings on the walls and the floor. the ones that want to sleep go underground. they dig little holes in the basement (dirt floor). and the lights here come on pink at night, but i don't see them dead on. the things in front of me are like a drug induced stupor i cannot grab them / they are not real. i go back to the memories. i had a pink dress once but even then - red frustration. i wrote a letter from my room to her. i think it had part of the sun in it. that is what i try to do - be brave, but the other one tripped into my life bumped over the things i cared about trying to be sexy and they broke on the floor. i haven't picked them up yet. i tried to be a bird then, to put something over her (a wing) to shove something soft and pungent under her nose, over her body, but i was not believed. i said, "i've got something for you." and i imagined an actual nest but she kept throwing herself against the world ripping her arms. and in the night something spoke to me, finally. something soft, something kind.
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you couldn't be more right. it's hard to pick and choose on which levels to be involved in the larger world (don't worry, it's just a mirage anyway). i think i seem to be creating a lot of my own worries lately, actually i KNOW i'm my own worst enemy right now (other than "the man", of course). i like getting lost in your journals though. my friend that i'm opening the studio with is currently working on pieces based on nests, so the end of this journal has many many layers of imagery and meaning for me right now...very powerful, those little nests.