Medlemsortafairytales

"....one of those long, romantic novels, six hundred & fifty pages of small print, translated from french or german or hungarian or something -- because few of the english ones have the exact feeling i mean. & you read one page of it or even one phrase of it, & then you gobble up all the rest & go about in a dream for weeks afterwards, for months afterwards -- perhaps all your life, who knows? -- surrounded by those six hundred & fifty pages, the houses, the streets, the snow, the river, the roses, the girls, the sun, the ladies' dresses & the gentlemen's voices, the old, wicked, hard-hearted women & the old, sad women, the waltz music -- everything. what is not there you put in afterwards, for it is alive, this book, & it grows in your head. 'the house i was living in when i read that book,' you think, or 'this color reminds me of that book.'"

-- jean rhys, 'till september petronella'

i was born in the bough of a magnolia tree, & my mother claims i grow more eccentric by the year.

at wallflowering, i'm ace.