Fond of Fonts

 the ridges on my palms burrow into the cracks that trail along my skin and i am unburied dig deep enough and witness the wallowing of times passing on towards a rushing future calming wisps between flowing waters path mirror anew curve and pubescent curiosities. -palm reading jb.

 veins twist + turn interweaving between valves, chambers + every which way along the aorta and all I can imagine is a crack right down the middle. -heart lines jb.

Among all the chaos between day to day changes misgivings misfortunes-- it was you. Watching this woman read a suspense novel on the patio translucent fingers turning yellow pages eyes scanning down lines behind perched edge-nosed glasses her bliss-- her contentment. Then you . You crossed my mind when all I saw was her its all you did same small, influential, indescribable action of losing yourself among pages of a world that's better than this one-- and you did. You moved from independence and fluid motions to the most fragile state of eating inabilities and tense throat ventilation screenings. You escaped in all forms of the action-- from today's world, trauma, discrepancies, tortures. And I'll stay here with her . Gaze at her  wonder, to embrace her and you . -fragile state

  my city                  my temple                   my body                    my me drain water cascades down my back, over the crown of my head, to drip down in between the s p a c e s that separate my toes. I'm hollow-- senses given over to the rushing rivulets that seem to overcome my initial reaction to step                            away Save my city . . . only after a few more minutes of Me time. -city lost to the sea

 I wanna drink it all in, every single drop-- moment with you. Dance in the field of lilac and inhale the aroma of life's purest form of natural bliss. My purest form of natural bliss-- you. Consume them--these moments, these drops, these lilac bunches. Pure silk in a time of harsh formalities. -lilac wine

  A historical record of witchcraft and it's survival over the centuries! Louisa Morgan's,  A Secret History of Witches , is a five-part novel circled around the Orchi ére female line--mothers and daughters who partake in the craft. The novel begins in 1821, where the matriarch of the  Orchi ére line seals her familial line's fate by using her powers in order to ensure their survival against those who persecuted their kind.  A  vision emerges for her family to travel to a farm at a new location and  begin anew, putting aside  what   they've come to know in order to survive in a world where standing out means burning at the  stake. The story line travels through five different generations of  Orchi ére women, mothers passed knowledge down to their daughters, in some ways more constructive than others. The relationships between both mothers and daughters were interesting to read due to the fact that the typical relationship betwe...

The first weekend of August happened to be the first and second day of the month. It was filled with heartbreak, aspirations, decisions, and hope. Tomorrow is Monday. The beginning of a new week in which the heartbreak will proceed with a decision that was guided by aspirations which will procure hope. Hope . Hope that things will be better in foreign territory. Hope that a change of scenery will cause an uplift in thoughts and emotions. Hope that what does stay the same could be looked at differently. There's that wedding saying, and believe you me there aren't an matrimony bells ringing yet, but there is a bond breaking, changing, molding, forming. Something old, Something new, Something borrowed, and Something blue . Something old - current scenery, Something new - a destination, Something borrowed - a dash of hope, Something blue - a new view of the sky as a paralleled figure. Maybe this first week of August wi...