We are in a mountain, more or less. But we could be on a fucking volcano, I don't give damn. You'd love the weather, every sunset has that light of yours. I should flee to the Antarctic, nobody can be unhappy in a frozen desert with no light for six months. We have the most curious microclimate and the poplars go crazy at the beginning of April, choking us with cottony balls of flying seeds. And we are Celtic, we are bounded with our trees and, alas, we go crazy as well. I remember playing with them in the backyard when I was five and my sister was yet to be born. I remember them stuck in my hair for days. I spend my hours playing with them, as lonely as I was at that time. Oh gosh, who am I trying to deceive here? I spend my hours vomiting pathetic line after pathetic line. Trying to find a replacement. We are on a mountain, my house was built on ancient bones. May they rest in peace. We have a castle, I've heard the whispers of the dead Templar knights. And I'm lying again, they don´t whisper: they howl.
Friday, May 19, 2006
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