Sun, 25 Jun 2006 17:53:33 GMT

I haven't touched alcohol in exactly one year.

MY GOD, who wants to celebrate the anniversary with a pubcrawl?

to the resistance
CONFIDENTIAL. Confidential. Confidential confidential confidential.

If you tell, then you get to die really soon, because we get to kill you, and then we all get to die, because you told the world, because you're a sodding idiot.

YOU CANNOT RELEASE THIS INFORMATION.

KEEP IT SECRET; KEEP IT SAFE.

So.

I set up a checking account at Gringott's for the Resistance this morning. It's under the name ERIK PIMPERNEL, the vault number is 801, I have the key, and if you want it— well you can't have it unless you're doing something that sounds important to the rest of us.

And it's pregnant already. Twenty fucking thousand Galleons.
end to the resistance

Goblins think I'm out to get them.

A Picture of Why Indeed I am Red Graffiti.

Mon, 24 Apr 2006 00:17:29 GMT

This wasn’t the first time someone had covered these walls. No, my paint roller was a tastefully unoriginal copy of the ones that had yielded color before (millions of years ago and yesterday). My weapon was drab and suffocative, and employed the corrupt use of fumes and splattering gray. I carried it with some raw pride; it was my slick right to deface the work of those that would deface the city. I did little to heed the spray paint, the littered art that is as natural a force of urban life as the dirt is of dear, soft Earth. It was unrecognizable letters; it was spasmodic lines; it was the manifestation of something strange; it was the polluted initiation of a neighbor’s collapse to pressure and persuasion; it was the abstract on the concrete; it was utterly and criminally below me, but soared dangerously high – too high for me to reach on my tip-toes; it was a risky string of adjectives tied together to tell a real story, the type so honest that guilt gets confused with temptation; it was a human being’s hallucinogenic world; and it was absolutely nothing to me. All I did was dip and roll, roll and press, press and dip. I ruined it. I did it on purpose. I murdered someone’s graffiti in broad daylight; my jeans bear the carnage, my hands have since been erased of evidence, my thoughts have been liquidated for the mindlessness of it all. I’m a fugitive on the loose, and I’d do it all over again just for hours.

a girl with kaleidoscope eyes;;

A Picture of Why Indeed I am Red Graffiti.