And through the life force and there goes her friend

This is the first free-saturday I have had for ages and ages and years and years. So, woho, I don't need to sit chained behind a register whilst the consuming-paper dolls fly by with their fat children and their bearded women who are so frustrated and lost in their ivy-climbing gardens and their yellow checkered kitchens.

So freedom for me.

I have to get a LOAD of chemistry-work done, with entails tedious searches for mechanisms for the reaction between K4Fe(CN)6 to prove the Fe3+. Gawd! What the fuck is this?

Need to write more. Need to write more. But my time isn't mine any longer. if anyone ever asks me what it means to grow up, I would say that it is about losing your own time. The hours are still there, of course, but they are not your own, like shiny marbles in a purple veily pouch, lost one and one.

Going for a run. Want to spend some time in the sauna. Get so steaming hot all the toxins and all the shit and every fucking bad thing that ever, ever happened to me will seethe through my too-big-and-hideous pores.

Yes.

Yes.

Then I will write. About isabella Høst. And her water. And her oceans. And her piano of stone in the stormy shores.