cakes and tea, sir?

firstly, what i said about all rearing to go in the previous post, that was bullshit. apparently western medication makes you feel like shit. and i spiralled into an awful awful sedated grogginess coupled with the inability to breathe, eat, sleep, think and speak.
but yeah, i'm ALL better now and i've even stopped sounding like a man.
spending the day in bookstores is just not as fulfilling as it used to be. 1. because seeing all the books that i cannot afford to purchase is depressing. 2. they never have the books i really want. 3. i have too many books to catch up with at home and hence i'm left in a frenzied confusion of where to start, what to read, what to buy and how much to spend. maybe i'm just old and boring.

lately i'm often left wondering why i am not able to tell stories like i used to. those quirky rambly ones that never made sense to anyone including me after awhile. one thought that keeps popping up is that my muse, my oh so beautiful remy has died somehow. misplaced, maybe. lost like a little child in a big shopping mall, waiting for the mallpeople to announce his being lost. i'm still waiting to hear his name being whispered. i have pretty smelling lilies waiting, wrapped in green tissue paper, to lay on remy's grave.

poor child. penelope is nothing like you, but she's just as wonderful. well, almost. she hasn't said anything yet, but you can tell that she would. and like you, she's so beautiful.

mummy made me crushed ice with fruits. it tastes lovely. too bad i cannot cuddle up in it and feel all safe like i would if i cuddle up to a dead bear beside a roaring fireplace. i'm saving the peaches for last.