cerisecherie

It is the time when sprouts struggle to thrust their pinprick heads through the moist olive mud of the ground and tulip bulbs begin to blossom sumptuous petals of sunrise yellow orange and sundown purple and pink. It is a time of putrescent decay and a time of embryonic growth, as past seasons' life comes apart to form inchoate loam so that new summer's life can flourish to rival the past. It is the time in which the ground is soft with decaying vegetation and soft with burgeoning new growth. For now is when we revive from our stagnating slumber and rekindle the blazing auroras that faded to dull embers.

I like to sit outside and watch the wind pluck the snow from the ground to adorn the trees. I enjoy the sharp burst of burning cold as flurries sneak past my scarves and slap my neck, as if to say "I'm here," a greeting from the heavens. I love to sketch the sharp contrast of shorn branches reclothed in snow and ice and the weaker lines of light that illuminate them in the sky, I love the play of glistening snow and shadow that dance across the trees and snow and sky. I wish I lived further north where the aurora borealis paint the skies in ghostly green blue strokes of impermanent ink. I wish I could transpose the wind's aria so a sembl

I am 5"3 (160cm) and 45kg (100 pounds) of curves and angles and the shapes set between. I am integral; I am important, crucial. I am an integral, the area beneath a curve. I am derivative; I came from others, unoriginal. I am a derivative, the changing rate of change. You can take an integral and search out it's source. You can find the origin of the curve. But if you take a derivative, you can never find where it comes from. There's almost - not quite - nearly - enough there, but you can never quite say where it starts. I don't know where I came from. Roots start at a certain point and choose a direction and never end. As x->∞, y-

My elbow bends 10° more than it should. I broke it while dancing in the rain. It took 4 hours to separate bone shards from tendon. I am not quite right in the winter. I turn red and blotchy purple as my breath loses rhythm and my bones start to shake, but I love the snow as it falls and clumps on pine needles. I love the burn as the slightly too-cold air burns my lungs. I bruised my knee a dark grey-purple when I fell And chose to save my computer Instead of myself. If you inspect the space between my eyes, a divot marks my first pimple. I read that it was caused by an impurity so I tried to gouge it out. I destroyed, too, half the n