Have You Ever ~ Part III
Anonymous
Nope
Have you ever walked in the rain?
Have you ever walked in the rain?
No takers? I was hoping to be regaled with a tale of state corruption. You squares! I've gotten high with cops who weren't necessarily undercover, but I'm pretty sure they were corrupt long before I got there. Speaking of which,
have you ever run a D&D campaign for evil characters?
have you ever run a D&D campaign for evil characters?
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
SonderNinja said:No takers? I was hoping to be regaled with a tale of state corruption. You squares! I've gotten high with cops who weren't necessarily undercover, but I'm pretty sure they were corrupt long before I got there. Speaking of which,
have you ever run a D&D campaign for evil characters?
No, never.
Have you ever used Konmari's folding method?
have you ever run a D&D campaign for evil characters?
No, never.
Have you ever used Konmari's folding method?
Hoarding Apologies
Dear KonMari,
I assent — I read your book, all of 224 pages intro to afterword
cover to cover, staring at your gentle smile, assuring life changes by
sheer magic of tidying up what contains, sustains within a shell —
but an empty room is just empty
beneath a transparent sky
in a body, heart, mind
a handful of dirt
in a box
surrounded by alabaster walls echoing echoes with persistence and
insistence of unexplainable desire, insatiable itch blurring the line
between needs and wants.
Filled and refilled with things and objects, objectifying memories, lovers,
daughters, sons, sound, void, warmth long gone shrouded within frayed
threads of wrinkled time.
I am the excess of exuberance, swallowing the moon and sun whole
laying on a pile of ruins; skin and bones, asking to undo what’s done.
These artifacts I caress so lovingly with secrets in their scent,
flourish roots under my feet and I feed them golden tears to harvest
grapes of wrath.
The wastelands are bulging with maggots feeding on salt of the earth
wending from consumerism veins of hypocrisy, rejecting leathery fruits
of superfluity.
While I collect the floury dust kneading into a dough, breaking bread
with logic.
Apologies!
Miss Kondo
I cannot discard a single thing
because,
I need to make love to something.
I assent — I read your book, all of 224 pages intro to afterword
cover to cover, staring at your gentle smile, assuring life changes by
sheer magic of tidying up what contains, sustains within a shell —
but an empty room is just empty
beneath a transparent sky
in a body, heart, mind
a handful of dirt
in a box
surrounded by alabaster walls echoing echoes with persistence and
insistence of unexplainable desire, insatiable itch blurring the line
between needs and wants.
Filled and refilled with things and objects, objectifying memories, lovers,
daughters, sons, sound, void, warmth long gone shrouded within frayed
threads of wrinkled time.
I am the excess of exuberance, swallowing the moon and sun whole
laying on a pile of ruins; skin and bones, asking to undo what’s done.
These artifacts I caress so lovingly with secrets in their scent,
flourish roots under my feet and I feed them golden tears to harvest
grapes of wrath.
The wastelands are bulging with maggots feeding on salt of the earth
wending from consumerism veins of hypocrisy, rejecting leathery fruits
of superfluity.
While I collect the floury dust kneading into a dough, breaking bread
with logic.
Apologies!
Miss Kondo
I cannot discard a single thing
because,
I need to make love to something.
Written by Layla
Go To Page
I actually wrote a whole big ass prose on her method of de-cluttering, folding and all that jazz of ocd lol
Here you go:
Have you ever sent a text message to the wrong person?
Here you go:
Have you ever sent a text message to the wrong person?
Hoarding Apologies
Dear KonMari,
I assent — I read your book, all of 224 pages intro to afterword
cover to cover, staring at your gentle smile, assuring life changes by
sheer magic of tidying up what contains, sustains within a shell —
but an empty room is just empty
beneath a transparent sky
in a body, heart, mind
a handful of dirt
in a box
surrounded by alabaster walls echoing echoes with persistence and
insistence of unexplainable desire, insatiable itch blurring the line
between needs and wants.
Filled and refilled with things and objects, objectifying memories, lovers,
daughters, sons, sound, void, warmth long gone shrouded within frayed
threads of wrinkled time.
I am the excess of exuberance, swallowing the moon and sun whole
laying on a pile of ruins; skin and bones, asking to undo what’s done.
These artifacts I caress so lovingly with secrets in their scent,
flourish roots under my feet and I feed them golden tears to harvest
grapes of wrath.
The wastelands are bulging with maggots feeding on salt of the earth
wending from consumerism veins of hypocrisy, rejecting leathery fruits
of superfluity.
While I collect the floury dust kneading into a dough, breaking bread
with logic.
Apologies!
Miss Kondo
I cannot discard a single thing
because,
I need to make love to something.
I assent — I read your book, all of 224 pages intro to afterword
cover to cover, staring at your gentle smile, assuring life changes by
sheer magic of tidying up what contains, sustains within a shell —
but an empty room is just empty
beneath a transparent sky
in a body, heart, mind
a handful of dirt
in a box
surrounded by alabaster walls echoing echoes with persistence and
insistence of unexplainable desire, insatiable itch blurring the line
between needs and wants.
Filled and refilled with things and objects, objectifying memories, lovers,
daughters, sons, sound, void, warmth long gone shrouded within frayed
threads of wrinkled time.
I am the excess of exuberance, swallowing the moon and sun whole
laying on a pile of ruins; skin and bones, asking to undo what’s done.
These artifacts I caress so lovingly with secrets in their scent,
flourish roots under my feet and I feed them golden tears to harvest
grapes of wrath.
The wastelands are bulging with maggots feeding on salt of the earth
wending from consumerism veins of hypocrisy, rejecting leathery fruits
of superfluity.
While I collect the floury dust kneading into a dough, breaking bread
with logic.
Apologies!
Miss Kondo
I cannot discard a single thing
because,
I need to make love to something.
Written by Layla
Go To Page
Vee said:I actually wrote a whole big ass prose on her method of de-cluttering, folding and all that jazz of ocd lol
Here you go:
Have you ever sent a text message to the wrong person?
Who hasn't?!!!!!
Have You ever become a pariah of a site and no idea why?!
Here you go:
Have you ever sent a text message to the wrong person?
Who hasn't?!!!!!
Have You ever become a pariah of a site and no idea why?!
