Thoughts of a Violinist Giraffe

So I've heard that the difference between poison and medicine is in the dose.      I've also heard that food should be our medicine, the front lines against disease.    I've also  heard                          (bear with me) that the quickest way to a man's heart           is through his belly. Let's put aside the obvious      problems glaring at us            with glowing,              unsettling eyes - of the literal relationship of constant ingestion of meaty, fatty proteins and heart disease - and let's just sit back, relax: take this     on a more abstract level. Her words & actions        were saccharine: thick dollops of gelato filling a generously large bowl. It took more than a few years to finish, but I got throu...

I have no words for feeling like I've been abandoned for the fifth or sixth or seventh time already. I can't stand thinking about it, conflicted on whether I should head the opposite way from where I - I , not we - have progressed or keep going, pretending I haven't realized already that you care more for him. Even if I could pretend I haven't seen or even noticed it, my eagerness will die out without my even trying. All I feel is dying and I can't stop it from eventually laying there on cold, hard stone. Tears are fought against, but like Napoleon at Waterloo, I lose to the feeling that I've never been the one preferred for the eight or ninth or tenth time already. I am sick and tired of feeling as though nothing I am is worth the light of day. I feel stupid and insane for ever thinking even the least bit of effort could change things. Not even my words feel the same. I have no words. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ An old poem from way back in...