it's 12:48 am, on July 21, 2007 - flesh wound.

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it's strange; I've got the book, and far from being excited, or angry, or even desperate, I'm-- uninterested. harry potter broke my heart in 2003, and apparently it's taken four years to heal a stretch of skin too thin over a crater in my chest where my love for these things used to be. the emotion isn't pouring out the wound, quite the opposite: it's dried, empty. the bandaid is there, but clearly I'm not willing to take the chance of ripping it off again. instead of anxiously reading it, I've put it aside.

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I've been going through my old entries, looking for quotes from books to put on goodreads.com, and I found this. how could I have been so foolish to come here? moreover, how could I have been so emphatically against knowing what was really going on, slowly but surely, in my own heart?

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still rereading entries; still finding the second verse, same as the first. the bit about LJ, and not being rude, anyway.

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what would sith be nostalgic about anyway - November 24, 2015
moving truck dilemma - October 28, 2015
- - July 19, 2015
- - July 01, 2015
bruise - June 29, 2015

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