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I am not in Croatia.

I am not in Russia. or Denmark. or Norway. or Belgium. or the Balticountries.

I am not even at a City and Colour concert.

I am not in Carp while the parents are on a honeymoon.

wait, my parents are gone. their there is far from my hear. unless i gaga a telephone. sarah reminds me - i should clean my room and my paper stacks from last year. one thing i am, of all the things i am, is a paper hoarder. a hoarder who hoards paper. like a mongol on a hoard that ransacks the rus of russia, they persist at their own, while i mine too. i have a lot of paper. if something interesting is on itm, chances are i keep it. and the longer i keep it, the more valuable it becomes. also more forgotten.

well, sarah said she is going to try to throat warble for us on the first day of school. krysta is apparently learning a new dance routine to show us - the group- exclusively. nikole mentioned candies from croatia? mmm. and eric, we are still waiting for our curling team sweaters. i still thing our motto should be:

curlers, we are like snails, only we perfect it.

anyway, i want to do something, but don't have time. maybe tomorrow morning, maybe not tomorrow morning. stop pressuring me! i have enough homework to procrastinate on.

(i figure, if i start procrastinating in the summer, it woe not be so severe during the chools eary.

UK, bye

look up, or probably to your right, then up.

i guess i'll write one.

i like clouds, i really do. every time, they are different.

well, first of all, they are grey.

Grey.

UK.

and not to mention.

also, its like a map on your face? reminder, you can look up each day, and your map woe not be the same. the illusionary blue be like: get out of my serenade. but the Grey fades both ways, and doe not give in to depth.

how about the time when you look up, and it's all orange? that pale brilliance is like an acrylic dab. and what was that colour? Payne's Gray? my favourite.

its a blue and frightless cold, but distant, so warm by the rain, or the wind, but cold by the rain and the wind; after all, not black neither white.

it moves, always there. the nubes, they'll paint a heaven for some, or a nostalgia for others.

and we bring the beat back!

with the british palatial,

we're in for the tennis rack

sharapova.