Ideas and nonsense form some kind of equation that I just don't seem to get.... or maybe I do but concepts only twirl around like a classical ballet. A ballet of mould choreographed inside my tinned peach of a brain.

Saturday, July 9, 2011

Saturday 9, July

As though they are doused in fluorescent light from hope, affection and contentment. The colours in everything are bright in front of good lighting.
Is red a literary colour? I think it is. Primary in it's boldness, like a fervent equivalent of black, printer ink. Maybe I should get fake red hair again.