Christmas lights bathe worn
upholstery in the same same still
glow, snow is falling

down and away like
time, scattered so softly on
all the branches and rooftops.

Written: 9:38 p.m.
~

Eugene O' Neill, one of the most acclaimed playwrights of our history (author of such works as "The Iceman Cometh, and "Moon For the Misbegotten"), wrote one of his most famous plays, "Long Day's Journey Into Night", later in his career, completing it only some years before he lost the ability to write completely. Poetically written, and scorchingly personal, "Long Day's..." is a saga of the rarely spoken tragedies that both hold together and rip apart a family (more specifically, the Tyrone family) in all of one day. Darkly cynical and at the same time beautiful in it's simplicity, O' Neill commands his character's forth from the pages to encircle you with their thoughts and feelings in ways never before imagined in a dialogue. In a careful balance of description and omission, the world of the play is unfurled in all it's glory and horror within the minds of the attentive and imaginative and leaves one speechless with emotions both joyful and sorrowful, flying through the pages in anticipation and dread of the conclusion.
"Long Day's Journey Into Night", only one of O'Neill's masterpieces, is a breathtaking feat of representation humanity at it's rawest state. I highly recommend this play, as well as O'Neill's other works to not only theater enthusiasts, but to lovers of language and the human experience as a whole.

Written: Just now.
NOTE: Whim.

That breathless feeling
right before you go over
the hill? That is you.

Written: In progress.
NOTE: Same as "Lenora", let me know if you think I should continue writing it. Thanks. :)

Sylvester Pullman was not very nice. In fact, in many people’s opinion, he was quite the opposite. One might be able to say that not one person in his entire life so far who’d had the opportunity to speak with him, even his own parents, had one good thing to say about him.
“Mark my word,” his aunt had whispered to her daughter at Sylvester’s birthday party when he was just eight, “that boy will turn out to be no good.” This was remarked right before Sylvester socked one of his guests in the face for playing with his most recently unwrapped gift. That was one of the many birthday parties that were cut short, all of the children who were invited being angrily pulled away by their fearful parents.
Throughout Sylvester’s life, many people considered feeling sympathy for him, but just before they decided to, he went and did something terrible and they refused to associate themselves with him any longer. At least, that was generally the pattern of things, until Clara came along, but that is not of immediate importance.
What is of immediate importance is when, on the nineteenth of May, standing over the body of the late Clara Carthwright, Sylvester fully realized his reputation (which was not at all unjustified), and also realized the seriousness and complete hopelessness of his predicament.
It was the truth that Sylvester had not intended to kill Clara. He knew it, but he also knew that she never would, and that it would take a miracle to convince the people who would need convincing. The last place that Sylvester wanted to go back to was jail.

Written: 9:29 p.m.
NOTE: Whim.

Food tastes better and
skies seem brighter, birds sing clear
all because you're near.