Kimitzu-chan

sleep sounds great an eternal sleep under the sleepy waves curled up on soft wood gentle, cold currents in the deep, dark ocean lying on the rough sand a shadow passes overhead bubbles escape my lips slowly blinking the sorrow away are tears more buoyant than water?

Open When… Gift Idea For Valentine’s Day I didn’t really know what to do… I didn’t want to buy chocolate, and I’m actually broke right now, so I wanted to get something cheap or make a gift. I looked online for DIY gifts and came across one that suggested letters for your loved one to “open when…”. I’m quite satisfied with the outcome. Here’s what I did: Materials: • Small jars, cork-topped / glass containers • String / tying cords • Paper / writing-on materials • Box / cardboard or wood container • Scissors / cutting object • Pens / writin

"Can we talk?" "Sure." They wait. He screws on the cap of his waterbottle. "Where?" "It's nice outside." A song plays in her head. They walk outside. They walk to the intersection. They turn right. They walk. She peeks at him. "Do you hate me?" "I don't see any reason to." She glances down, gathering her courage. "Do you like me?" "That's something I'd prefer not to answer." "Oh.." She pauses. He walks. She follows. He's tall. "I've been thinking.." He walks. The song plays in her head. "I've been thinking these past few days and I don't think we should continue hoping for what's to come in six years.." He walks fast. She's short. "I wanted t

A poem By Christine Wong The only things I feel are The gentle Pitter-patter of Warm snow on the Broken earth ; Heavens bleeding On the gaping wounds Of hate Destruction Sorrow ; The sky’s cry of Its mourning song Of pain And melancholy ; The wind’s howl Of anguish As it dies Dies Hitting the expanse Of human’s humanity ; The rain’s tears That stains the rivers red ; And the long-forgotten Memories of days Much Much better .

“Live?” She tried the word uneasily on her tongue. Death chuckled. “It’s rather hard to explain. Would you like to try living?” Mary nodded. The young girl couldn’t talk yet, but one grows faster in death than in life. “Very good. Adventurous.” Death waved his bony fingers towards her. “I hope I never see you again.” ** “And that’s how I escaped Death,” she boasted. Mary was eleven years old at that point. I chuckled watching her. How does one escape Death? But children are always wild with these delusions. So I let her continue believing this. She was a rather fun