#alackaday

[yloiseconeillants]

i’m playing around with the not-janky screenshots and lmao i absolutely cannot do this with the same screenshot uploaded via twitter

[portiafitzsimmons]

oh my god i completely forgot about this kid too wow 1840 is awful

[pseudoperfection]

Jane, The Weird Half from the Hobbithole,

          There's something about mornings. There's something about the cool air, the tones and shades in the walls, the smell of coffee, the dew perched on leaves reminiscent of the cold that enveloped the atmosphere some hours ago, the sun streaks glimmering the foliage on trees and the blades of light reflected by the pond in the backyard-- everything is in its epehemereal glow that everything's-seems-alright-in-the-morning feel feels undeniable.

          I particularly like writing to you in the morning.

          I just write about the minutiae of things I can remember, of how you look and how you're feeling. The spur of the moment stories I wanted to tell you right now, while your head is buried in my arms and I can smell your shampoo or breathe the scent that is yours. I don't need to learn the painting moods of Murukami or the exquisite wordplays of the poets-- give me the 'ol school pen and paper, the humming of birds and the renewed feeling of mornings and the words will turn into spontaneity too overwhelming, like sands slipping through the gaps on fingers or strong river currents breaking even the mightiest boulders on the banks.

          I like to picture you rushing your way to work, or sitting on a deserted bus, your lips as red as blood, your eyes fixated on the unrolling scenery. Your hair disheveled and you not giving a damn about it. Basking under the California summers that I hear from Yellowcard records. Maybe you're wounding a familiar street amidst the sea of faces. I wonder what is going in your head when you realize your just a speck occupying a Space in a Time. I wonder, more, if you recognize that you're an alterer of the universe-- just like everybloody else, only, they're not aware. I picture you thinking that we're just squishy bags of mortality reeking life until we collapse and succumb to that abysmal unconsciousness Maybe, I monopolize those mad thoughts, for all I know.

           I picture you outside, with I Swear This Time I Mean It blasting in your earphones, the stars overhead as bright as Roman candles, randomly punctuating silvers on the dark night sky. You looking at the expanse of city lights infinitesimally glowing in hundreds and hundreds of miles. You looking beyond that, to your left, crossing the Pacific with me there writing this very crap of a letter-- with a different timezone, with a different shade of sun, perfecting many different do-you-know-that-I-love-you subtleties (I have to do that, the last time I endear you love in the box, you didn't like the idea and that I was scared as hell you won't talk to me anymore), but with the same yearning to experience the world, breathing the same amount of oxygen and Stardust.

          Anyway, that's you, 'ol Jane-- I can sit here all day, mustering the best words, pouring my heart out, maybe write you novel as thick as Russian's but I'll wake up tomorrow, with the same renewed zest and inspiration, and I can write you some more.

[portiafitzsimmons]

DOUG JOOOOOOOOOOONES

[portiafitzsimmons]

correction i am still trying to power through 1897

roger and "trooping" will have to wait

[downbytheseaside]

Alackaday is probably the greatest word I have ever laid my eyes on. Thank you, Jack Kerouac.