Goodbye Ink and Paper Vingt

I had cried wolf twice before.

The hairs on the back are full of electricity, every fragment, amplified.

We are standing together trying to sort out the mess.

Someone wishing harm, trying to wreak their havoc on my sanctuary.

Their actions tug at my curiosity.

There is a place for such as you and I.

A softly glowing blue light searches, it spots muddied footprints.

We still stand, holding a look, neither knows what to say.

Fear.

I didn't mean to play the damsel, it was forced on me.

I like to choose my parts, not have them thrown at me.

I don't mind being caused injury, I can take care of myself; it's the ones I care about, their fear.

A little baby cries, she was awakened by deranged howls and unearthly laughter.

I hold her tightly in my arms, peering out the window through drizzled drops, she looks up trustingly, I spot them, running away.

It is amusing to you?

This cannot be, I have difficulty relating to that kind of cruelty.

Crux.

The sounds, screeching, I suspected a catfight by the unnatural tones.

Stomping breaks through the quiet, it stemmed from heavy feet.

I can imagine the heel in the shoe pounding against the rain covered wood.

The rain seeps into the ridges.

The shoe leaves marks, ridges on the damp ground.

There is only one kind of mark I like to see.

We survey the area with bewilderment.

A puzzling predicament.

I'm being taken over by the fear.

I am a weapon of massive dissipation.

Fault.

We hold wide brimmed mugs of South American nectar, fueling suspicions.

How could this be?

Torment.

Hold me!

Yesterday.

What must come before.

Tomorrow, will it really come?

It's surely nearer now.

If it does come will you still be human?

Detectives.

All I ask of you is one thing that you'll never do.

Would you put your words into an activity.

Through my shiftless body.

Listlessness.

I didn't ask for anything.

Or did I?

Would you tell me your life story, I only want to put it together, the puzzle.

The pieces are too scattered, and most will remain far beyond reach.

Am I so little that you just didn't see?

Please be careful, you know where I am, so why step so hard on the ground?

I should have opened my eyes sooner.

I couldn't say for certain, but next time I'll divine the direction of your steps.

Rainbows and trunks of gold.

The eyepatches suppress at least half of my means to gain a better understanding.

Sunken phrases.

The ship has sailed to another sea.

Buried treasures.

She can't be still because of sixteen years of standing there.

Emanating restlessness, Eliminating all kindness, seeking me out.

There are rainbows after April storms.

I am pouring bubbles into a pot of gold.

I recline into the prisms.

I think I may just sit here awhile, on the very top.

I am the amused one, occasionally glancing below.

Come up if you like, I am inviting you.

Machiavellian Schemes.

Her conscience follows him in the streets, flagstones shake under your feet.

Too articulate to bother noticing me.

The wind picks up, carrying leaves and small twigs.

I grab at one.

Trying to steer you clear from harm.

White flowers only budding.

Don't bloom too soon.

The frost still has a chance of getting to you.

This is the fault of whoever let you out.

Keeping company with dehydrated, narrowed eyed girls.

Selfish, aren't we?

We are not here for the right reason.

We're here for them.

Why did it take so long?

Was there a queue in the post office?

Always resurfacing, I hope that it will one day be forgotten.

Chapter XIX.

That One Should Avoid Being Despised And Hated:

"I consider that a prince ought to reckon conspiracies of little account when his people hold him in esteem; but when it is hostile to him, and bears hatred towards him, he ought to fear everything and everybody. And well-ordered states and wise princes have taken every care not to drive the nobles to desperation, and to keep the people satisfied and contented, for this is one of the most important objects a prince can have."

" I say that whoever will consider it will acknowledge that either hatred or contempt has been fatal to the above-named emperors, and it will be recognized also how it happened that, a number of them acting in one way and a number in another, only one in each way came to a happy end and the rest to unhappy ones." -Nicolo Machiavelli (The Prince)

I may require some suggestions for my reading list.

Lately I have been caught up reading Huxley, and okay, I can admit this...Vogue and Vanity Fair. The VF playground articles are my favorire (they are society pages.) This shouldn't come as a shock to people who know me. I have been set on getting married to Albert 12th Prince Von Thurn Und Taxis for a good four years.... http://www.thurnundtaxis.de/

Word of advice:

Do not under any circumstances read Capote's Other Voices, Other Rooms while listening to Wagner's Death of Isolde, you will cry. There is the possibilty that I was just overly emotional. Gee, I wonder why.
I've been writing more frequently on this because I lost my flashdrive and I don't have the will to spend money on a new fancy notebook, (I am very particular). Excuses.

Donations? You know you want to get rid of me... ; )

Goodbye Ink and Paper Dix-Neuf

Words from off the beaten path.

Block by block. The little pieces all come together, like beads collecting on a strand.
I don't approve of this kind of puzzle.
All the offers I toss aside.
Contrast follows me closely.

The ordinary.

I don't want anything more than to see your face when I open the door.
Let's hike up the hill. I know we'll be out of breath by the time we make it to the top.
I'm sure I'll win out in the end, Pouncing up and down, grinning ear to ear, a sore winner.
Follow me, I can clear out a trail, but you will be walking below, I like to run ahead.
I know it doesn't seem fair, but I'll send you a postcard when I make it there.
If I pause for a break, I'm sure that I won't be passed.
Raising dust.
I can rest awhile if you really want to be first.
An actress, a trail as a stage, I am willing to play second for a bit.
I go through stages, does this mean I'm not clever?
It's not that I'm letting you win...you seem so determined, it would be wrong of me to ignore that.
While cavorting, I sense another person, the fear stops me from pulling faces.
Bunny Ears.
I explained that only recently. Alright, I shouldn't have done it in that way.
I used salty phrases and I waited too long to say it. The expressions escaped me.
I waited for an hour or so, I had a notebook and a pencil to pass the time.
All it takes is a phonecall, but there wasn't any reception way out there, I was on a hill if you recall.
Too tired, time for sleep. I moved too quickly, slinking through passageways, I found a way out, so did they.
I think somewhere we switched places, I had no idea, It escaped my notice.
"Keep going"
"I need a break"
"Well take it when we are at the top and- -"
"There is a pebble in my shoe!"
Any excuse is acceptable in that pitiable condition.
I use it again.
"Maybe you can make a necklace from all these pebbles"

Miscommunication. I pick out the shiniest stones, I put them all together.

I even out the rough edges against a sharper rock. Reshaping.

I give, easily.

You let me have my way. Sitting atop a rock, I look down, my palms feel funny.

We plodded much farther than I thought, it's not a hill, it's a mountain.

Now, I have think about how I can get back down, and I will, it's inevitable, but I still won.

Carousels.

Tomorrow I'll leap to the otherside of the railing. I can see all of the characters, gilded mirrors, and multicolored lights. I use thoughts to pass the time before it starts up. I don't want anything more than to see your face as it spins around in your direction. Lit up brighter than the bulbs above me.

Some thoughts about my relatives in South Dakota:

The feathered and blanketed figure of the American Indian has come to symbolize the American continent. He is the man who through centuries has been molded and sculpted by the same hand that shaped its mountains, forests, and plains, and has marked the course of its rivers.

The American Indian is of the soil, whether it be the region of forests, plains, pueblos, or mesas. He fits into the landscape , for the hand that fashioned the continent also fashioned the man for his surroundings. He once grew as naturally as the sunflowers; he belongs just as the buffalo once belonged.

The bodies had souls, also formed and molded by the same master hand that fashioned harmony. Out of the Indian approach to existence there came a great freedom-an intense and absorbing love for nature; a respect for life; enriching faith in a Supreme Power; and principles of truth, honesty, generosity, equity, and family as a guide to mundane relations.

Headwaters

Noon in the intermountain plain:

There is scant telling of the marsh-

A log, hollow and weather-stained,

An insect at the mouth, and moss-

Yet waters rise against the roots, Stand brimming to the stalks. What moves?

What moves on this archaic force

Was wild and welling at the source.

We talk, you listen.

With the rise of ethnic studies programs and courses in minority-group history, the Natives situation has become worse. By recognizing that Indians have contributed the names of rivers to the road map, many poeple feel that they have done justice to the group concerned.

A documentary, camera flashes, a crew hastens to either the Navaho or Pine Ridge reservation, quickly shooting reels on poverty conditions, and return to where they came from, blithely thinking that they have captured the essence of Indian life. In spite of the best intentions, the eternal yearning to present an exciting story of a strange people overcomes them. The endless cycle of poverty-oriented films continues. There is no effort to present the bright side of Indian life.

Parallels. That's all. I made the connection.

Goodbye Ink and Paper Dix-Huit

Controlling substances:

Blitzed:

If it wasn't for me you wouldn't have anything.

I'm snorting through the walls around me.

I'd like to stick a syringe in your arm.

If it wasn't for me you wouldn't know the urge.

It's rubbish, the rush, an average girl, you'd do anything to please.

It makes me cringe, I'd stick my syringe right in your arm.

Everyone is saying you're not ready for me.

You move in the wrong circles.

Since that day I inhaled, stay clear from me.

Don't jump in my way.

Are you ready for them?

Whatever recipes you find, add mushrooms.

We'll be racing.

Psilocybin.

I'm jumping a train to Amsterdam.

Under the ocean.

I saw a railway, I swear, a mermaid pointed out the way.

A substitute sweeter and whiter than sugar.

If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't even have the urge.

You'll move in the wrong circles, you'll be stuck with schwag.

I'd like to stick my syringe in your arm.

I jump through a hoop.

Abandoning circles.

If it wasn't for me you wouldn't have anything.

You don't owe them attention, pay them in ganja instead.

Purify your circle.

Bad fringe.

It makes me cringe, Soap Bar.

I am plunging my syringe into your arm.

I very much doubt you feel it the same way anymore.

What took me so long, to discover snow?

An average girl, who you try and please.

Now I am the center of the universe.

I hop around on the bed.

Everything belongs to me.

Control, I have too much, I know I am everything, but nothing is me.

It is all for me, existence.

Power "tripping".

If it wasn't for me he wouldn't feel anything.

Desensitized.

I built a snowman.

If it wasn't for me you wouldn't have blow.

Welcome to the fourth layer.

I'd like to remove my syringe from your arm.

Since that day, I lost my will to survive, got a little back, I'm stuck with methadone.

I'm ready for you.

Come down with me, we'll have a hangover.

It makes me cringe leaving my highs behind.

Downers from now on.

Laced everything.

Materials of poor quality, not me.

I'd like to share my spliff.

Snow, pure, white, easily a waif when used properly.

What for?

An average girl with a kind of heaven, a kind of hell.

I suppose you knew right away when we first tread upon hills of gold, and silvery mounds.

Since the day I left my baby, a sweet girl named Poppy.

I gave you my syringe.

Gaga girls, they love you.



What is so great about you?


I don't see it.


The only thing worth anything is me.


Pills only take me so far.


Are you better than me? No, I don't think so.

I suppose you know because we went to together.

Hand in hand.

No you didn't and no you don't.

No you didn't and no you don't.

No we didn't and no we won't.

We sit in between old car parts.

"Do you want to jump the train with me?"

No I didn't and no I don't.

No matter what we'll be together. I'll never give up what makes me forget.

Excuse my excessive blogging, earlier was inadaquate.

Goodbye Ink and Paper Dix-Sept

Someone kindly told me that I wasted all of my good lives.

I tell them "only if you take them out of context".

What is it that you value most?

Things I value:

Hay.

Bread.

Mud.

A good night's sleep.

Honeydew.

Being une jeune femme. (Young enough to enjoy the moment, old enough to enjoy the moment).

Moments, not minutes.

Reading poetry and essays at five in the morning simply for the novelty of it.

Easter eggs.

Swimming in mud.

Still being awake.

The thing I value most:

Myself, with honesty at a close second.

I went to Birdies on 18th st on saturday, I purchased an Anika Brazil swimsuit. Some people spend less on rent, C'est la vie. The intricate beadwork is a study tool, so I count it as a school expense. I used to want to design swimsuits, even an expierienced seamstress makes forty-one and has to throw away forty. I bought one. I was ready, it is time. I must practice my prancing. Water will never touch it!

http://www.fourseasons.com/paris/

http://www.hearstcastle.org/
Which of these two pools do I choose?

I am also done with 7 pages of a short novella...not alot, but a novella is short only 83 more to go...It will have a very abrupt and violent ending...It is actually an autobiography.

On that note, Goodbye Pixels and and Readers Dix-Sept.

Goodbye Ink and Paper Seize

I am drifting to an island. It will one day be haunted, but that day is not today. There are no ghouls tormenting visitors in these halls as of yet. They will come soon enough, rattling chains as they float by. It is my turn for now. I am mistress of the island, I have a throne in the castle. The castle sits high up into the clouds. The island is a mountain with valleys deeply set underneath the sea. I've explored it at least a hundred times, I have yet to hit the plateau.

The climb can be exhausting, sometimes leaving me faint and crippled. Motionless, I hide into any crevice that will hold me.

Every corner, every limb, every breath, every heartbeat, I am.

How impossible it is to be still. How incontrollable, my desire to climb.

"Lie down, under stormy night, tell nobody." I will keep you safe. Burrow into the hollowed trunk of the tree. The tree , it speaks to me, branches softer and warmer than any others. There is no tree I would rather have heal me. I nestle closer, it wraps me up, it picks me up, I am lighting up the sky. The stars may twinkle, but they don't even dare compete with me. They should really dim themselves in my presence. I thought I had made that clear.

Every moment, every glass shattering, every turn, I am.

A shroud of dew is set below. I know I must come down, and cover myself with leaves. I wonder if you'll appreciate my disguise. Quickly, run, away from the clouds, they will take you up again. Be patient, but don't forget.

I run wildly around my palace, It appears so much less appealing now, I sit atop the precipice, and I pine for what just was.

"There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception”

“An unexciting truth may be eclipsed by a thrilling lie.”

“There is something curiously boring about somebody else's happiness”

“An intellectual is a person who has discovered something more interesting than sex.”

“They intoxicate themselves with work so they won't see how they really are”

“A fanatic is a man who consciously over compensates a secret doubt.”

“Classic remorse, as all the moralists are agreed, is a most undesirable sentiment. If you have behaved badly, repent, make what amends you can and address yourself to the task of behaving better next time. On no account brood over your wrongdoing. Rolling in muck is not the best way of getting clean."

- Aldous Huxley

The world is blurry, I am clear.

Goodbye Ink and Paper Quinze

The reflection in the water is unrecognizable to me.

Where did I intend to go?

I missed my exit. I wasn't paying any attention. I am stuck in this lane, going at a high rate of speed. No exits in sight, going nowhere, fast. Highways, a means to get to some place, a road less traveled. There is no hesitation.

I split the guilt into two parts. I generously assign you the bigger half.

I've never believed in causing external injuries. I starve, dying from the inside out. I wash my face so that no one knows I am fasting. Now you do. An emaciated corpse is resting on the altar. As a devoted priestess I perfume the body. Bitter scibblings, a notebook which documents the incarnation to the aftermath. A pile of beautiful bones. Fade away. Being and Nothingness. Hell is other people. "They say I'm plump, but I threw up all the time.""It makes me sick. Now I've stumbled here, failed to make it mine." Cleansing the sacrifice. Untarnished virginal creature singing a song that no one was meant to hear. Echoes are all around the doorway, crawling to the ceiling, they penetrate the song, they turn it into a fearful howl. They ring loudly in my ears, like the cries of children throwing tantrums and fits, which I don't bother to soothe. A lullaby. A trance. Go to sleep. I will not wake again, no matter how loudly you scream. I am stuck here in a vacant dream.

I am the seed sown among thorns.

It seems the world is divided into good and bad people. The good ones sleep better... while the bad ones seem to enjoy the waking hours much more. To you I'm an atheist; to God, I'm the Loyal Opposition. It's not that I'm afraid to die, I just don't want to be there when it happens.

My lover belongs to me and I to him. I belong to my lover, and for me he yearns.

Skimming though a book.

How I answer your question isn't half as important as how I will question your answer. The world is full of crashing bores, I must not be one, because someone always turns to me and says "Take me in your arms and love me."

When the unknown became known I did not fear it any less. The mystical world I entered was one not due to pen and paper, or even lonely musings, I entered it accompanied.

All that was lost cannot be recovered or removed from time. I assuage my own pains, I leave you to your own devices. Pick your weapon wisely, my dear. I sharpen mine. It exists in a hidden place. A glance, you won't pick up on it. Density. Intensity. Spitefulness. Rancor.

They realize they are there to torture each other, which they do effectively, by probing each other's sins, desires, and unpleasant memories.

I think about life, I think about death, neither one particularly appeals to me. If the day came when I felt a natural emotion, I'd lie in the middle of the street and die.

You just haven't earned it yet, and I'm telling you why. All the love that you long for eludes you. I'll tell you why. You wouldn't believe me.

I've seen pictures, so I've seen people.

I searched, what I seek is unseen.

I've seen stores which sell it objectified.

Objects I'd like to be.

Won't you please objectify me?

Something you hold.

Something someone can mold.

I'll keep scanning, seeking life, objectified.

Glass coffins. A firm resting place for my head. Sleeping Beauty. Thorns. A glass case, so all you do is look at me. The absence of interaction.

Reprisal. Tomorrow in the Battle, think of me. The game is, in fact, so dirty and so biased that, on such a basis, no justice system can possibly presume to be just, and perhaps, therefore, there is no possible justice, ever, anywhere, perhaps justice is a phantasmagoria, a false concept.

Things past. You are trying, but not as hard as I. Your existence is trying.

The substantial, falling in love- and the insignificant-falling in love. People are ceaselessly relating without even realising they are, and quite unaware of the uncontrollable mechanisms of treachery, misunderstanding and chaos they are setting in motion, and what could prove disastrous, they talk about others, and about themselves. This constant telling and retelling is perceived, wrongly, as a transaction, disguised as a gift, and is more often than not a bribe, a repayment of debt, and a curse. Backbiting, how kind, I thank you. What is it you are trying to achieve? It is approval you seek. That's not how you find it. Justification, justice-a false concept, we have established that.

Insignificant odes to concrete objects, only finite substance, just like you. Compare. I am the judge. Jokes with severe injury. False accusations. Perjury. Imitation. It was only a bad impression of sincerity. I found it easy to enter into. I feel my lungs closing up. I feel that feeling I get at only one time. Leave it alone, I was only singing. It was a song that I will not perform again.

I speak to the one who needs to be spoken to. Make amends. How I love you!

The poets of long ago, I am the weed that chokes your roots.

I am the seed sown on rocky ground.

I am the sun. I am the air. I nourish you. I deprive myself.

We're done, at least I am, I can't speak for you, but this has been a long time coming. Try and guess what I mean. Try and figure out who this is directed toward, no one who would read this, or even knows it exists. The games children play. I can't pretend I feel love for you. I can't pretend it gets easier. I have hung on, I have egded along this narrow ledge. I can't pretend I feel love for you.

Goodbye Ink and Paper Quatre

Leave it alone, I was only singing. Melodies and harmonies are dripping over my palace colorfully. The worlds I build are growing. Thinking too much.

I recognize you as me.

I recognize me for who I am.

I could not discern which demons were let into the landscape of my world.

I recognize then as what should have been.

I could not make the distinction between reality and fancy.

I could not even begin to undo the damage.

Gliding by the pines. I balanced myself on a branch. Summer seeped into every part of my soul. Desperately inebriated by the glow of the setting sun. I could not wait for it to go away. Evening unleashes a release of inhibition. I heard my name. I gave the dusty hiding place away with a muffled giggle.

After a very small struggle, I surrendered. Maybe I gave up too easily. How pleasant it is to be amongst the wildflowers. They shout for me to imitate them. I sway when the powerful southern winds entreat me.He crouches down poised like a wolf, almond eyes witholding pieces of himself. Drawing the curtains so that the light can't penetrate the window of his soul. He told me the names of all the different grasses. He told me lies, he had no idea what they were called. I studied his face not the ground. His expression was far removed the surroundings, intent on the one in front of him. The wind is against you, it moves your curtains, I see in. I am bare, There is no need for me to hide what is within. I act sheepishly, that is because I know not what I am doing. Why hide? In this innocent place of mind there is nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to have to keep to myself. When things are good, they should be shared, and I have no secrets or regrets.

The sun moves down across from us, it remains, we turn away. As I turn, my linen dress catches on a thorny bush. The muddy dress is now light brown, though it started out a pale off white. I check it for a puncture, it is unharmed. I face upwards, the faint last rays of sun still burn my eyes. We walk in opposite directions. He heads peacefully east, beginning anew, erasing the time. Sunrise. I sprint west, going fast, going nowhere fast. I end up alone, in the grasses, a dusty heap, giving up on the chase for a setting sun.

I wipe the blood off of my cuts with a leaf, I pinch the wounds to cleanse them. I become an expert in cleaning their messes for them. I examine my bruises, such variations in the shades. There are many bruises, but they heal much quicker than scatches. A purpley monstrosity takes over my left knee. I thank God I came away with only bruises in the beginning. If only they had been painful enough for me to falter in continuing.

Time refuses to be still. More darkened adventures like these ensue. I stand upright after I take my final tumble. My dress is only shreds and caked with black earth. My chin points left, my eyes focus down. I shift my position to better view the criminal behind me. There is a stab wound in my chest. I cringe. I weakly lay down again, feebly clinging to a dying world which drains the last drops of light for their own. I writhe. Light up a new world with them. The last semblance of my childhood gleaming brightly for the amusement of the newest eastern star. Don't burn out too quickly. I fade away.

The sun is down. It does not rise again.

I am not really so alone, Fernando Pessoa and The Book of Disquiet, read it and you'll see.

Build high walls around the garden of your mind.

"Literary alter egos were popular among early twentieth-century writers: Pound had Mauberley, Rilke had Malte Laurids Brigge, and Valery had Monsieur Teste. But no one took their alter ego as far as Pessoa, who gave up his own life to confer quasi-real substance on the poets he designated at heteronyms, giving each a personal biography, psychology, politics, aesthetics, religion, and physique. Alberto Caeiro was an ingenuous, unlettered, unemployed man of the country. Ricardo Reis was a doctor and classicist who wrote Horace-like odes. Álvaro de Campos, a naval engineer, was a bisexual dandy who studied in Glasgow, traveled to the Orient, and lived outrageously in London."

You thought I didn't know. That is telling. You underestimate me. You know, I run the risk of seeming pedantic when I behave true to my pure form.

I follow Pessoa, what you see is an illusion, a genuine lie.

I'd rather be despised for who I am pretending to be.

I keep mine hidden. You'll never believe me so, why don't you find out for yourself?

The Sanest days are mad.

Sick down to my heart, that's just the way it goes.

They know the full extent of your distress, they kneel and pray and they say: "long may it last" .

Why don't you find out for yourself?

Bad scenes come and go, for which I must allow.

Don't rake up my mistakes, I know exactly who they are.

I've been stabbed in the back so many many times.

Goodbye Ink and Paper Treize

It's not wrong and I must own I was taken over by the sweet delight.





In a world of discontent I sought solace in the deepest realms of guilty pleasure.







http://www.andreschocolates.com/



I must say that I have had one of the most amazing weeks. However luck has nothing to do with it. I truly believe that you can get whatever you want in life with a positive attitude, charm, confidence, and the occasional hit of dark chocolate.


I went to see my dearest love, Mr. Steven Patrick Morrissey. I was granted the setlist.


I found out which hotel he was staying at. I was bestowed the honor of touring through his room.
(The Presidential Suite)



I missed a certain duck, and we spent exorbitant amounts of time together.


I was exhausted from having such a glorious week so I spent some quality time in an herbal linen wrap. http://www.bijinsalon.com/servicesproducts.cfm




I kept my hopes up and a smile on my face, plastered in more ways than one.


I went home again this weekend. Halls is my real home. They know my name (well, the people in the shoe department and the Chanel counter, the fragrance "Juice Bar", and if I am being completely honest...the handbag department too. ) The entire building is a wonderland of merchandise. Lauded by anyone with taste, Halls has everything a girl like me would want to be surrounded by from Van Cleef and Arpels to the Ermengildo Zegna. As I exit, overstuffed shopping bags in hand, it hits me, there is no place like home.


Oh, right, I'd almost forgotten, I am engaged! To two boys!!!!
British ones, a roadie named Oli & Mark Cupello (bass guitarist for The Courteeners.)
Whoever shall I choose? Maybe accepting both was a poor choice on my part...Oh well.

Goodbye Ink and Paper Douze

Uninspired I look up to the sky, I wonder how long until I get high.
Satan rejected my soul
He never quite goes this low
He's seen my face around
He knows Heaven doesn't seem to be my home
So I must find somewhere else to go
Too jaded to question stagnation

The sun burns through the face numbing air.
It isn't enough
I want more

And I get what I want
I'll never want it again.


I suppose that I could pretend that it was about something that it isn't and the unintiated might be foolish enough to buy it.

Goodbye Ink and Paper Onze

How on earth could I be anymore obvious?

The highlight of my year.