![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Oct. 6th, 2004 11:38 pmCharlie sits on the bed crossed-legged and writes.
Last night with Bartleby, he did . . . something. In my head. Moved something away or sheilded it or covered it or something. So I was still sick and sore, but I wasn't begging for horse anymore. That's a step up.
He's a real, actual angel and that must be why when I'm with him I feellike someone worth saving so damn good.
Nothing about this place makes any sense if you look at it in parts, but if you look at it all together, it's really quite wonderful. It's a bit like the island, really: a hodgepodge of people with their own histories, coming together out of necessity.
I just don't want to disappoint anyone this time.
Got to play for hours and no one complained of the singing. I blame the Muse entirely.
He puts the notebook aside and curls up on the bed.
Last night with Bartleby, he did . . . something. In my head. Moved something away or sheilded it or covered it or something. So I was still sick and sore, but I wasn't begging for horse anymore. That's a step up.
He's a real, actual angel and that must be why when I'm with him I feel
Nothing about this place makes any sense if you look at it in parts, but if you look at it all together, it's really quite wonderful. It's a bit like the island, really: a hodgepodge of people with their own histories, coming together out of necessity.
Got to play for hours and no one complained of the singing. I blame the Muse entirely.
He puts the notebook aside and curls up on the bed.
