Little spore
let those gusty hands
grab your lightweight hairs.
It's got you now
you'll never coagulate
with your counterparts
again, feel sad?
Mountain valley only has
two sides and they
point to each other
but there's always a
river that runs out,
out, out!

cheese those songs.

I find it fascinating that certain songs can make you feel happy, sad, aggravated, joyous etc.
Since when did cued notes, effects, sung words create a memory flashback? But in this comment, I really dislike the fact that cheddary TV shows steal sweet songs and turn them into their trademark that burns a word or image into your brain that brings out their intended advertising evil. For example, the OC. How many songs have you stolen to your advantage? Who even listens to Frou Frou anymore without thinking of this superficial, often ignorant sitcom?

I think I just got a bit off topic.

Cut transmisson.
Stop.

tree words.

' See you when these mountains turn to oceans.. '

I saw this quote on a lightning-struck bent over spruce tree when I was walking along Bow River on an icy Monday morning. Amazing, don't you think?

adaptation.

I've been adapting
to this new way of living.
A little less oxygen
a little more ground.

socialicious rum and pineapple.

Making punch is a very social event. Last night at the bakery, my co-workers and I made a big bowl of punch in the bakery kitchen. Who cares if it crossed the boundaries of no detection of alcohol despite the copious amounts of riesling, rum, vodka and brandy in it. Cackling witches around their brew. It was a fun night. Sitting in the second hand store at two in the morning playing 'Tribond', drinking cider, playing with puzzles and talking about the extra inches pink silk padded bras give you. Oh, I love the randomness, dear Banff.

marital problems.

maybe it's just violin meets grungy guitar, but I love it.

hey you Adelaidians!

I miss you like a dandelion misses its feathery spores when he brushes them off with a whisp of a breeze. .

stop. stop.

Too true that feeling I felt in my feet when the ticket slipped like butter from my eyes. He didn't see it coming and my question marks were gold. That didn't depend on it though. We had ignorance feeling bliss in this piss of a time. Never knew that tone before so I flipped the dog-eared pages. Too true that feeling I felt in my feet- shaking through my feet- when that man on the street knew my name right off the bat.

it went a little like this, again.

Do you ever get that feeling
that you're putting in too much
to see that a burning light
in the cellar in the still house?

I've got a secret -
you probably won't agree
because I've got a problem
about the way you've extracted me.

Bribing me with words
won't make it ok, this time.
This time.
This time.

Hot points in my eyes say
'Stop looking for something that you'll never set your glassy eyes on.'

Thanks for your lack of input.
It's not like I needed it.
No, I didn't need it.

a night ago.

Default one:

1. So, you're not going to answer that question, Kyra?
2. I've got no answer to give.

Default two:

1. I hate to say this but we had so much fun when you left.
   
2. S'pity I left.
   

April 23th, summer's death.

Walking up Tunnel Mountain, I had snowflakes in my eyes. The sun was tapping me on the shoulder as it hid behind the blanched bedsheets in the sky. A green and black tie-dyed jumper isn't going to coat my arms in radiating heat this chilled afternoon. You needn't fool me today, young solar. I've got this feeling in my frosty bones that summer ain't nigh.

Vancouver.

Tick tock goes the clock in the middle of town.
Tick tock goes my mind when you're not around.
Tomorrow's gonna be a crazy day because it's not what I do
it's always what I say and I feel more alert.

People's misty breath mixes in together,
bitchumen takes it all in this city of
coast mountains and blue sea.

Too much wild, wild west,
too many frozen fingers
to be warmed by it and its belly.

I know it's spring
but it's nothing.
We've got indications to do
what they told us to do
told us to do.

I was looking at our stats
and it seems like I've given you
too many pats on the back.
Yeh, I know it's a sick fact.
Yeh, I know.

Mmm, I think I see
how we're going to take it back
to mediocrity.
Level average for me.

Too many clouds to be sleepless in Seattle.
Too many chimes to hear that sickly rattle.
Sandy, sandy, sandy sun dunes
in March.

Spring, spring
your colours are popping.
Ring, ring
no telephone ring.

Are you still here or are you going?
I can't see your footprints in the snow
so I guess you've been gone for at least two days or so.
Or longer.

Or longer.

crystalise.

The ink told me not to look straight into the sun
but I was hypnotized by its sweltering
Heat that evaporated the snow.
But after all that, the white will go
the white will go.
To where, few do know.

Then you're left with a liquid that's
Too great to handle
With these two small hands.
Faces on telephone poles,
faces on telephone poles
stare at me whilst I'm struggling to hold
this clear catastrophe.
Summer's got a monkey grip on me,
you see.

you've got no back-up.

I dislike people who blow others off without reason or rhyme.
If you're going to disregard somebody, have a good reason.

please, you do amaze me.

Some people in this world are just so friendly and caring, it just amazes me. It's something that it never seems to fail to amaze me. So sincere.

So insanely wonderful.

pear shaped paranoia.

One day, I felt it watching me, monitoring my every move. I was sure they were conducting an experiment. Documenting every flex and fade of each technical, mechanical impulse in my arms and in my legs. I tried to avert my eyes from its solar streamed stare but it burnt me and I had to react like carbonic bubbles and too much soda. Milk of magnesia cooled that acid but their notes were too secretive for me not to peer on. Damn it. Too illegible. Too scrawled.At least I have my pen license. How can their fellow spies understand its reports?

Just lie and cheat, you'll surely defeat
those satellites in the sky.

He's got flair.
And it's really not his hair.

thursday night is ripe.

I was thinking about hostel nomads today as I walked down the mountain side towards the town of out-of-season christmas cheer. So many people that I've met and others have too. So many different dog-eared books that carry themselves around with their dirty knee-worn jeans. Will I ever see them again? That's the question. You seem to farewell the people you've met only hours ago as if they were long lost friends that you hadn't seen for centuries. It's funny: in the real world of city life and blank glances thrown around on clattery streets, one just takes a single look at a person and dismisses them like they're just another granule of sand on that grey beach. But in hostel, it seems like every thread of flesh has a red novel that they hold in their ribs that you want to read. Tell me everything about yourself.

1. Your name.
   
2. Your country.
   
3. Your favourite music.
   
4. Why are you here?

It's hardly interrogative. Somehow you can do all of that without a spring loaded bedside lamp and a husky, harsh voice. Why is that? I love it though. Nobody is afraid. Those streets are lost memories that are indefinitely washed away by melting snow. I'm interested in your story if you're willing to share it.

the supermarket tango.

North America and United States do not understand the concept of supermarkets in shopping malls.

Does it not just make sense?