are you ready to come to NEW YORK CITY!!!

(story intermission) 679 posts. Countless nervous breakdowns. Splashes of poetry. Multiple chapters. ... a bit of progression. Dear Blog Tribe / Cult / Family / Keepers of all things Divine I LANDED A JOB IN MANHATTAN AND START SEPTEMBER FIRST!!!! New York City!! HERE WE COME!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!! I woke up this morning with these exact syllables tossing from my tongue: "NO! I do NOT want a COFFEE! NO! I do NOT need to take a shower when...

serialized. four of seven.

Clara is in her bedroom smoking cigarettes. Considering the number of people in her life at the moment directing where she must go and who she must speak with, there is a unique freedom within each inhalation. Her mother loathes her habits. When she arrived home from the hypnotist, Clara stepped into a steaming shower and exfoliated her skin with hand-made sandalwood soap from the local market. Within the patterns of hot water chasing the curves...

serialized. three of seven

Clara has sought many places to go deeper. More than crystal streams and woven baskets. Wherever she looks lately, she finds an extra thread. Like everything else, her memory does not seem to be what it once was. What do you see? People have different theories about what happens when you die. Lyla was brave enough to test them in a new way. "Cover my eyes. I'll hold my breath." The attraction of seeking how close you can get. The compulsion to...

serialized. two of seven.

She arrives at a cottage surrounded by pine trees that smells like chimney smoke. She does not consider intention’s involvement with this destination. A dusty window reveals a near empty room. There is a stool, a bench, a basket and a bookshelf. Initially she does not enter. Clara strolls the perimeter of the small stone structure. There is a rocking chair on the front porch beside a potted plant and bouquet of orange chrysanthemums. She...

serialized. one of seven.

They say the answer comes naturally if you ask when you sleep. Not before. Not after. During. She regains focus with a name on her lips. Wrapped in lace. It is something uncommon. Something she wants to speak without knowing to who. No conception. The viridescent realm of her barefoot travel was scented with young flowers and fresh rain. Sounds of nature supported the low Bach hum vibrating her chest from the inside out. A distant waterfall. A...
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