Writing

I have begun writing daily, and am working on a script. Still looking for that second male actor, and have begun moving into the house, though there have been no offers on my place yet.

I like the house more and more and have ordered a test pot for a colour for the lounge.

This is a moment in the cycle of love that I am interested in portraying:

I watch out the window.
When I cry, my tears scratch their way down my face.
They are acid to me,
and my bones are chalk.
My arms and legs ache to be free of me,
they draw disease to them,
they starve themselves.
If only she were here, I would be whole again.