who can say what dreams are?

the endless search for the missing puzzle piece

spinning, spiraling,

Frustrated. Rupert has been trying his best to blow up a balloon. An elasticky red one with a long ribbon he intends to attach at the end. Marjorie is floating along above him, waiting for him to join. Instead he is stuck on the ground, desperately blowing into a balloon. A balloon with the smallest hole that only lets a drop of air escape at a time. But enough air so that when Rupert finally has enough to float it escapes while he attempts to tie it. Frustrating.

Overcast and dreary. A forecast that seems to be stuck in the northeren hemisphere. Creating rain at the most unnecessary times. An inconvenience. Rupert wants to float in outerspace. The problem with outerspace? Noone can hear you.

" Night won't breathe, oh how we
Fall into silence from the sky

And whisper a silver reply"

Noone can hear the desperate attempts of conversation, or your laughter.

The stars aren't very emotional people. Why do we attempt to land amongst them? A star is a big ball of sparkle that sticks to the not-air that space provides. They don't listen to each other, just attempt to outshine one another. Some stars fizzle out, other stars pick up their dust and shine brighter. It's a dog eat dog world.

Or... space rather.

What more could I ask then a cup of warm tea and a book? In a cozy apartment above a bakery.

Yes.

Perfection.

starving artist

we're alike me and cat. a couple of poor nameless slobs.

Music is the only thing that makes sense right now. With a rush of notes it sends you spinning.

Rupert enjoys it, he closes his eyes and escapes to places far away.

I have been sketching again. Just a simplistic drawing: a man with an outstretched arm, grasping an apple in his hand with a stem and a leaf attached to it.

it's nice.

I did a rough copy, to attempt the grayscale complications of the piece and discovered that the rough copy wasn't that bad. It was a relief to know that I still hold some artistic talent. I haven't drawn since highschool, it's something I don't want to lose.

Drawing and writing, I need to do more of. Also reading.. and tea drinking. Because there is nothing wrong with those either.

The flowers that were on the kitchen table have disappeared. They were quite a pair. They blossomed and opened showing the world their beautiful colors. they drooped over the side of the vase. The stems were too long to hold such exquisite blooms. The beauty did not last unfortunately. With a simple touch the petals fell off, and the flowers began to wilt rather then sit beautifully. They had been taken from the roots and struggled to drink the water they sat in. The water was not the same as the nutrient soil they once sat in.

Water is a treat for plants, a treat that plants search for and when they find it they have to equally distribute it throughout the plant. They grin and giggle to themselves. Almost in a drunk stupor. Rupert thinks that water is similar to wine for plants, it brings the color out in the petals cheeks and makes them smile and dance in the wind.

When a flower is plucked the water that they sit in is too strong for the flower to endure. The flower drinks the wine-water too fast, it's beauty is magnanimous and then it is taken from it with the hangover that is soon to follow, it's stem still rests in the water. All it can do is keep drinking.

It drunk itself to death.