[Editor's Note: You'd think considering updating this only consists of actually posting the entries, I'd be on top of it. But, I have been failing . . . Again, apologies for the lateness, change of habits and environment have thrown me off.]

You’ll never have her. Shut up. She’ll never love you. Shut up. It’s hopeless, you’ll never have her. Shut up. Once was enough, for her.

Pink flesh and white skin twisting around each other like a snake wrapping about a baby and eating it, eating it by tearing one chunk of flesh away from the bone — one chunk at a time — slowly but with wild disregard for scruples.

She had her fill, came and gone: used you, abused you, baby. Shut up. It was all just for that one time, one instant, one moment . . . One second. Shut up. You really should give up, you know. Shut up. Give up.

A mosaic of light reds and pale pinks, each piece only a smidgeon different hue, saturated in the bright, unbearable light. Like a mural on a wall, splashed in random pattern and brushed in emotional, spontaneous strokes, one over the last and the next across the other slashing forth around the centre and moving to the side, from side-to-side then up-to-down, left-to-right. A blur of a meaningless mistake, splayed out in display for the mind’s eye.

It’s possible . . . No, it’s not. You know it’s not. You always say it is, but it’s not. You need to get over it, get past it, and forget her. It’s not happening. It could — No, it couldn’t — she said — Lies, lies — and I know, I know — nothing — she’ll come back.

A spray of white light dancing across reddened cheeks underneath a green wash of a grassy impression, scattered and unfocused. Shining, glittering, glowing, green eyes wrapped inside a solar sun, slicing the brightness like an eclipse in midday, like a forest star intersecting a white dwarf. Then, mirrored back on itself and reflected, perfect and precise, across and aside, in a pair, two twins in tandem in clouded heaven . . . A sprinkling of gold swirling within it all, the whole time.

You’re hopeless, you know that? She fucks you once, and you think it means something, anything, like she’s the proverbial One, your soul-mate, one-true-love, la-de-da, made-for-you-and-only-you. Give me a God damn break, because you’re an idiot and a fool — she’s a woman! She used you, she had you, she made you and broke you, apparently. All in one fell swoop, thou art undone, Romeo. You are unmade, Dimmesdale, and now you see, Oedipus the King, now you see.

Blood-tinged curls and waves crash over the barrier, over the shoulders, like a thousand ocean storms washing onto the beach, a hurricane of rust and sewage, waste and destruction, collapsing upon the sandy world of the pristine, white beaches. The maelstrom cacophony of wails, howls, groans, moans and shouts, pleas and commands, ride along on the coattails of the thunderstorm, clinging to the gray and black, foreboding clouds of the coming new age of apocalypse and the end-times. All is melded into one and all is chaos, all at once it falls, falls.

She’ll come back — she’ll come to me — I know she will, and it’s only a matter of time. She came to me that one time, when he so hurt her and made her cry those angelic tears, and now he’s gone, and I’m still here; so, she’ll come, she’ll come. There’s something between us, even if she doesn’t know it — but I know it — and then we’ll be together, forever lovers. Just like before, just like how it should’ve always been: without him, and me with her. I know it’ll happen, it’s just a matter of time.

Colours explode like bombs in blues, reds, yellows, and greens, coming forth, violently birthed from nothingness, screaming and bawling — unstoppable forces of life barraging its way into reality. The pitch of the music raises to a high, undecipherable buzzing that teeters off in a squeal, and the convulsions of the ground beneath cease to shake. A peace, a calm, a serene contentment settles down as a cat to nap after slaying an army of rodents.

You’re pathetic, you know that? You make me sad. It doesn’t matter, because I just have to keep waiting. When will you figure out the truth, huh? I know the truth; you’re merely a voice in my head, anyway. What do you know? I know what you know, for one thing. I know everything about you, and who you are, and I have your memories and thoughts, all tied-up in a pretty gift-box. I don’t care. I know you know, too, Bobby. Know what? You know what I know you know, too. You know that I know how silly this all sounds, too, so why don’t you laugh with me, now? Shut up. Heh heh heh. Shut up. Heh hah heh hah hah.

A young man with matted hair, doused in sweat, lays on a bed in the dark, his eyes blank and staring upward. His mouth twitches as he stares at the blue ceiling, and he shifts in bed uncomfortably. The early-morning rays of the sun begin to stream in through the window, like in so many other stories, and reveal to the whole world the messy picture of a teenaged boy, restless and nervous, performing his first task of the day, some cold, Winter morning.

Hah-hah-hah-hah, hahaha, heeheeheehaa, haha-hoho-hehe!

The young adult, the boy so verging on adulthood while being a child, licks his lips and closes his eyes. He shuffles in his bed, then furrows his brow and squints his still-closed eyes. His mouth still twitches. Finally, he opens his eyes, again, and relaxes his face.

I hate you. But, I lo-o-ove you.

“ . . . And that was the latest single from the new ba—“

Reaching his hand out from beneath the covers, he presses the button on the radio and wrinkles his nose. Realising his forgetfulness, he sits up in bed and rubs his hand against the blanket.

“Ew.”