DreamerInTheAir

You tell him about your cancer on a Sunday, in the shower of all places, in between brunch plans and speculations about whether or not the weather will ever get any colder - hasn't it been the strangest November? Just the strangest. You casually mention that somewhere deep in the secret space between your hips your own cells are proliferating uncontrollably, whispering treason and passing down forgeries, teaching each other the steps of mitosis with alarming intent. You don't miss a beat as you drop survival percentages mixed in with tomorrow's rain forecast and predictions about the game later that afternoon - easy as breathing, even as co

i.never become a writer. you will become a perfectionist, picking life apart with a magpie's eye, hunting for the beautiful bits until you can make yourself a sparkling throne in the center of a junkyard. ii.you will write when you're sad. you will write when you're happy. whenever you feel something, you will vomit the emotion out into some sort of literature. when you're finished, you'll be empty and surrounded by pages and pages of everything you once were. iii.you will try to make pain sound delicious, painting over the ragged wounds with pink paint and candy-coat lies. you will learn how to decorate graveyards. everyone will play