sundaygirl's profile

It is well known that there once was a day when a younger Hamlet dueled an even younger Fortinbras. Days rolled in and out and games unfolded, girls stopping in the courtyard to roll down their white-ribbed knee-socks for periodic exposure to frigid winds. Our Hamlet smoothes down her thick bangs in a yellow-tiled bathroom. Fortinbras scribbles equations and theories of calculus in a group of twenty-two. Outside the school dead leaves are picked up and thrown at the windows. The sun peeks in ...

Eyes glittering with sincerity like the eyes of silverscreen starlets gazing reflecting the pain in this world back at its origin. How clandestine a ritual, to open ones mouth and find a solitary violet perched on the tounge.

I woke up this morning to Ganga raking her fingers through her matted black hair. She smiled at me and placed in my hand a cluster of stars that screamed so brightly I let them go like six balloons rising into the clouds.

I suppose, in your opinion, the best place at which to kill yourself is Singapore. What's the appeal to those eyes whose irises are most likely the colour of the flower for which they're not named? Had you not considered Borneo? Or not the filthy, flowing Ganges? Or even Big Sur? I'm sure that's what Kerouac would have done.

Oh, stars- Oh, great beasts! A whithered ivory hand reaches slicing the darkness, an arrow piercing many hearts alike. Just five blindly writing digits struggling to attain the American dream.