Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Spot the Elderly>>
Today I walked out to the museum, where I planned on tumbling down the hill, to lounge on fallen trees spread out across a river. Upon rolling up my pants, two fellows appeared out of the side of the museum, and one asked, "Is your name Camilla?" Referring to a girl who went to the highschool a few years ago. Her hair was pink. So was mine at this particular time. And still is. I should have said yes. But this is irrelevant. What I'm trying to say is, while stretched out on the fallen tree, I demanded the sky to rain on me. It came slowly. Always slowly. Sometimes it would stop. I would shake my fist, and yell, "RAIN, HARD!" Like the desire for rough sex, or something to that extent.
Today I walked out to the museum, where I planned on tumbling down the hill, to lounge on fallen trees spread out across a river. Upon rolling up my pants, two fellows appeared out of the side of the museum, and one asked, "Is your name Camilla?" Referring to a girl who went to the highschool a few years ago. Her hair was pink. So was mine at this particular time. And still is. I should have said yes. But this is irrelevant. What I'm trying to say is, while stretched out on the fallen tree, I demanded the sky to rain on me. It came slowly. Always slowly. Sometimes it would stop. I would shake my fist, and yell, "RAIN, HARD!" Like the desire for rough sex, or something to that extent.
