Nothing to report on. Two years now since grandpa died.

Look at past posts to see the story.

Today's book to read is 1984 by George Orwell

 

 

Today's book to read is Yevgeny Zamyatin's We.

The movie is The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas.

The song is Thinking of You by Katy Perry.

When I wrote that title, it reminded me of the chatspeak phrase my Polish friend always writes: oj. It really bother me whenever I see it, although she explains it is like 'oy' because the Polish j is y. But still, I'm sure you can see my frustration.

I was very happy to see satguru is still on this site. A great mind.

Today's book to read is Kurt Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle. Excellent beginning turning into a bizarre end. Really very good!

 

 

Father forgive me for I have sinned.

It has been 10 months since my last confession.

What am I in for, asks the pastor.

 

This is me checking into funtrivia.com. I used to be here every single day. But I stopped.

Coming on here just now made me think of all the profound moments I've seen whilst being on the site.

 

On my part, I have changed my major in university from Ancient History to Creative Writing.

My favourite subject to write about? Apocalyptic episodes within the mind of traumatized individuals.

Coming on here has given me a bunch of mixed emotions. I do not know how this will be accepted, as I do not know who is on this site. I did see some old friends still posting on their blogs, but god knows if they will check this.

If they do, then may the god of your understanding bless you. And for atheists, the blessing of course means a wish of good thoughts.

 

There, covered everyone.

 

Today's book suggestion is Angels in America. Read it. Be enlightened.

 

Who knows, maybe I'll post one of my own someday.

A Product of Number Two-Five-Four

By Priscilla

 

 

 

What fond thoughts occur today, Miss Dickinson

As you approach a grisly fate with arms outstretched,

I sit in your house, ignored and desolate.

Here I am,

Conversing with George Sand.

(She should take off her cravat, she’s not fooling anyone.)

 

Do webs and dust amuse you?

Do they alone impress you to write of hope and eternity?

Do you read to them? You have yet to read to me, Miss Dickinson.

 

I see you, Emily.

Picking the flowers, ignoring the children who

throw stones at City Hall,

screaming for sanctuary.

And free verse.

 

But every thing with feathers comes a sacrifice.

And as I watch you, Miss Dickinson, regain composure,

The coroner uncovers the bones.

A stone falls out of one hand,

free verse out of another.

 

You could be the next child to see Cerberus.

You taught me, Miss Dickinson.

I found hope.

 

I am a product of number two-five-four.

 

I see you, Miss Dickinson, and I don’t blame you…

for wanting it this way.