12.07.01 - 1:17 p.m.

Today is... gray again. relentlessly gray, in all its myriad gradations. i don't mind the color so much. i don't mind the color at all, really. sometimes it's really so gorgeous, so damn wistful, like a dream at the back of your mind. mists, a castle, fading for another hundred years as your one chance of love waves to you from the window.

well, not that sort of wistful. the wistful of masterful painters who paint dreaming girls, the dreaming girls who rest they cheek on the palm of their hands, and their elbows on the windowsill, and stare out at a world swathed in gray and threaded with ribbons of mist like ghostly rivers and dream a white horse (not a knight, just the horse) whose shoes strike sparks from the ground, who stamps and stomps and rolls its great blue eyes wild until tamed by the dreaming girl's own hand. they trot off to grand adventure. there might be a prince waiting for them at the end of the road, but if there isn't, it doesn't matter.

something like that. something about dreaming, and not just any kinda dreaming, daydreaming. staring out the window like you can force something new to spring up from the tired, familiar landscape, or seeing the changing mists with new, and brighter, eyes. it doesn't matter as long as it's something, anything. automatic and whole-making, hole-marking, marking the distinct hole where reality splits asunder and you can slide beneath the skin of your perceptions, huddle up close to your illusions and breath life into your passing fancies.

until they aren't quite passing, anymore.