I believe that height is a very salient marker, because I got received some evidence that man who is anything but tall wouldnt act as a leader in relationship. Well, even if undersized one is quite clever, he will rely on his girl at least, while if he is not smart ass he will torment and bang his fist on the table in attempt to humble his girlfriend. So, I am that kind of girl who will kicking until he threatens me to tear off my head in the near future. It's just as a trial by a hard task, because I need a very strong man. He should be able to hang over his shoulder exhausted to death girl and carry her through life in right direction. Otherwise the fate of Marie-Antoinette repeats itself.

"There are doors that let you in and out but never open
and there are trapdoors that you can't come back from."

I am filled with indignation at this kind of person who I define as a stonewall, as you'll never succeed in changing his mind - he's very obstinate and ... ugh, it's just beyond description... two-headed faggot definitely. Parce que autant que je sache a merciful person will always let you in and out.

[400x612]

Flying Fish Herbert James Draper

That's exactly the queasy feeling as a crowd running into thousands gathered in my head and I had legged it.
While this wanker will be sleeping the sleep of the innocent, I'd rather go and have a smoke.

The issue assumed serious dimensions. I dread to think how terribly he poisoned my mind, as compared with him all the dire calamity of British petrolium could be seen just as dabbling. His venom of the spiteful satire which he successfully put up infects me with some voluptuous desire of revenge. It is purely comparable with the spite of the furious crowd in the time of French revolution. Oh, I need to calm down and let off some steam. Now I am ashamed of my words as I am sure my mind made weak through undernourishment and overwork. Indeed, I ought to believe he didn't mean to hurt me.



[570x411]

Saint Jean Baptiste (1604)

I took all acesodynes I have in this house and the pain finally abated. Oh, while I was growing faint from my fever, I read deeply in my course papers in the hope that my emaciated mind gets all this phonetic peculiarities of northern british accents or types at least hundred words full of grief about Great Irish Famine..
In fact, I stopped near of Northumberland, when I catch sight of Les Miserables by Victor Hugo... and then Les Fleurs du Mal by Charles Baudelaire... Consequently, I ended up with reciting delectable lyrics of Provencal troubadours, which reminds me unique charm of French, reminds me heady days of childhood alighted with mischief, somehow, shade of a forest, riot of verdure, glaring sunlight and incredible colours of wild flowers. Obviously, I should spend more time on walking, I just wish there were more decent picturesque places to go.



[699x439]

John William Waterhouse - Ophelia

Notwithstanding my continuous fever, I dreamed in troubled slumber about jungle, endless fire of submachine guns and steady soaking rain, thick splashes of mud were overall and I felt some fervent ardour, death agony, last struggle in that odoriferous air ribbing my guts out.. Obviously, there was only lack of the Doors's riders on the storm as a soundtrack of this nightmare. Well, Garland undoubtedly is not a bedside book, now I've felt it on my own back.

In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer
Albert Camus

As I write thousands of texts and senseless letters and should concern myself about millions problems, I can't fall aslepp in delicious dreams painted in Turner's watercolours as I used to. My mind is tossed. I feel as I'm in a room with closed shutters to shut out the light. I want the sun!
Coffee, tobacco, sickening slop and petty mind - that's all that west civilization has endowed us with to get into our heads. Woe is me! Ugh..


[500x374]

Joseph Mallord William Turner 1775 - 1851

"I loved the desert, burnt orchards, tired old shops, warm drinks. I dragged myself through stinking alleys, and with my eyes closed I offered myself to the sun, the god of fire."

In the morning I had a look so lost, a face so dead, that perhaps those who I met did not sight me.
Springtime brought me the frightful laugh of an idiot. Boredom is no longer my love. Rage, perversion, madness, whose every impulse and disaster I know, -- this is the burden I am relieved of.

Well, in the light of the latest developments, I want to clear up all the mess. I don't conceal my natural inclination for dead faints - it's my funeral. But don't convict me of it as something criminal. Everything that you, morons, concern yourself with is kind of trivia and matters that are not your buisness, so frig off here and don't be insulted by my passing you by. Nothing warrants your behavior like that, when I had three hypoxemic collapses during half an hour while you were nailing your eyes on me as some moribund creature. That's absolutest, and sometimes loathsomest, trash.


[500x282]


Georges Clairin, Ophélia dans les chardons

"C'est le repos éclairé, ni fièvre ni langueur, sur le lit ou sur le pré.
C'est l'ami ni ardent ni faible. L'ami.
C'est l'aimée ni tourmentante ni tourmentée. L'aimée.
L'air et le monde point cherchés. La vie.
- Etait-ce donc ceci?
- Et le rêve fraîchit."

(It is a repose in the light, neither fever nor langour, on the bed or on the meadow.
It is the friend neither violent nor weak. The friend.
It is the beloved neither tormenting nor tormented. The beloved.
Air and the world not sought. Life.
- Was it really this?
- And the dream grew cold.)


I wrote these lines on her card which totally define my intangible, innermost feelings when I see her. I'm very fond of her.


[453x699]

A portrait by John Singer Sargent of Mrs. Fiske-Warren 1900

"Il dort dans le soleil, la main sur sa poitrine
Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouges au côté droit."

(He sleeps in the sun, his hand on his breast
At peace. There are two red holes in his right side.)


Deep down I knew things couldn't go on as before. Now I get all worked up over nothing easily. Well, probably people die as well as spray cans - ones get over and it remains nothing them to do but to hiss in vain, other ones, on the contrary, don't have enough pressure, so they will always keep inside what they are made for. Nonetheless, I am hollow empty as ever, ab inito, inasmuch as primarily I should instil my mind with something. As regarding my pressure - it tooks only one moment to flood out me and ends up with insulting words with ever other breath.

As we came out of the cinema where we were terrified by camera work and extraterrestrial Chloe's look and I was walking round some puddle so, I suddenly run into some man's hip whereupon he stopped and was gazing so intently on me that I glanced back at him more than once. Probably I mimic and fit on all the manners of characters I see unconsciously, so when we're walking I have some ardent lust in my bedroom eyes or perhaps that's all about my shortsightedness.

music: Lois Garrel - Ma memoire sale

'We're sitting closest to a screen to receive image first, to receive it fresh'. Nous somme suspendu aux lèvres de tragédien and filling with a desire mixed up with the acrid bouffées de fumée which is way of bitterish feeling of everything starting to wither inside.

Alors, we are going to the art exhibition of brusque Picassso, though in my state of mind I would rather breathe brisk air in the park and buy some spray of primrose and armful of roses in their better blossom colour - white ones are fading out on my bedstand turning into mere pergameneous semblance and it's hurting me as Wilde from the cover of 'The Happy Prince' riverting his dreary wistful eyes on this lingering Death.

The words had become rude and easy, because it's truth. You're living like this because you have to, drinking, sexing and kind of complacent melancholy and enough money to sot yourself oblivious every night. But me, I am because I chose to be.

My rings split down and my fingers are shaking flicking off ashes. You know, I've just read delicious sentence of some woman - not famous, just from the net, who remarked: "There's only one man no woman can resist... Mr. Darcy!" So, no one woman can really resist him. Sure, that's clear - why should I stay aside when it might be as well to lie with him?
Mr Darcy, especially with Matthew Macfadyen face, he's just like the flat, which doesn't make you pay off any mortgage. Well, he's already wealthy, taciturn and addresses you only by "dearest". As man-turnkey, in general, he doesn't demand long years of holdings and payments to have an ideal partner in entire life before you are pensioned off.
Therefore he certainly stirs up. He is desired to do something with him, you see. That's why all authoress are eager to write such a thing.
Anyway, in my case, I'm just as Jacks being with the man who I should totally be in love with, but I'm not and I wait the moment, when I wake up and feel something. Nevertheless it's not love, more likely a flue...
"Self interest exists, attachment based on personal gain exists, complacency exists. But not love. Love has to be reinvented."

I wish I settled down on the water flow, bloomed up with a pale lily of satin gauzes and carried off with caressing current among green velvet gleaming as dark bronze in the sun. Wind would kiss my breast on a carpet of silver filigree of outstretched fluid arms and surroundings sprays of blossom jewellery. My eyes would chant the sky and the sun having lured me like a god with a wild gleam in huge blue languorous eyes and limbs of snow.



[700x484]


John Millais (1829-1896)

'I who bored through the wall of the reddening sky which bears a sweetmeat good poets find delicious: lichens of sunlight mixed with azure snot; who ran, speckled with tiny electric moons, a crazy plank with black sea-horses for escort, when Julys were crushing with cudgel blows
skies of ultramarine into burning funnels;'.

'But, truly, I have wept too much! Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter: sharp love has swollen me up with intoxicating torpor. O let my keel split! O let me sink to the bottom!'.



[699x479]


Joseph Mallord William Turner (1775 - 1851) - Port Vimieux

Oiseau enferme dans son vol, il n'a jamais
connu la terre, il n'a jamais eu d'ombre.
Paul Eluard

I'd rather suffocate in a stuffy room blowing clouds to stay alone and read Oscar Wilde's Stories savouring every shade of words. 'Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river - pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the tree'. As my lips inhale once more I feel clouding of my consciousness and soar under the smog tamped down into my mind ending up scaterbrain. It's floating away having drained all my spirits. I am empty and hollow; defeated.



[497x362]

Herbert James Draper (1897) - Pot Pourri