The time has come to leave you. I am deeply sorry for this, because you are a cool guy. And filled with matching cool guys.
BUT the time has most certainly come.
I am absolutely eternally gratefully for the fantastic, wonderful, awesome and completely fucked up individuals I’ve met here, and for the corresponding times I’ve had with them.This place, and these (fucking awesome) guys have changed my life in so many amazing and unbelieveable ways.
I would be 27 percent of the person I am today if it wasn’t for them and here, and what they’ve shown and given to me. Through the wonderpurbly good, and the heart wrentchily bad. I’ve, quite literally, learnt my (many) lesson(s)
The wonder, the hurt, the awesomness, the confusion, the ripping, the smiling, the tears, the giggles, the complete and utterwastedness and (most imporantly) the Fitzbreakfasts have moulded me into an (arguably…) fucking cool guy.
I’m 22 and I’m ready to take London and the Arab speaking world by storm.
Love to the cool guys, the mediocre guys and the fuckheads,
Hannah-Cool-Guy-Face-WonderfuckingPurb-Chica-Norvell-Read
p.s I can dance if I want to…
Complete coma. I’m no faker. All of my organs are swelled with lack of movement and anti freeze.
Evoking evokations of past moments of stillness. Of sitting with my cheek against a frozen window, tiny flakes brushing the lights, hiding everything in red fleece. Of tears that had no real reasoning but threatened to isolate what was left, the hypocrite in me already bursting forth.
Everything works in cycles and circles, some that I hadn’t even noticed. And I thought that some of the lines had been broken and I was working in some new kind of coil now, but apparenty not.
Winter is the perfect time for these all engulfing isolationist moments. Not that I’m quite there yet… I long to cloak myself in black satin punctured with fairy lights, to move magically and camouflaged at the same time.
Coma daydreams are fun. Like pushing a multicoloured self describing glitter ball into my brain.
COMA DAYDREAM No 764
Cubed bagel sky. And my mind is filled again with ridiculous memberings of creamy, bloodstained fingertips, tentative with guilt, that brushed away the tiny strands of straw creeping towards your eyes.
Transparency is me. I shall speak in riddlings from now on.
Wrote this yesterday, parts came true sooner than expected. Oh. Yay.
“I feel mildly acidic. I just turned over a new leaf. Literally. It made me dirty, which was kinda the opposite of what I was going for…
“Hannah Norvell-Read feels like a drunken spirally yoyo attached to a curled, rusted, rotating metal wire…”
Maybe I’m going to spiral out of control. Maybe.
Maybe I’m going to twist myself up in my cord. And all the rust is going to rub onto my skin and it’s going to be very visible and ugly and no one’s going to want to play with me anymore.
Maybe I’ll fall off my chord entirely and smash onto the ground and crack open and be splintery splinters that catch in peoples’ delicate toes.
Maybe some lovely person is going to come along and gently caress my chord with a magic velvet cloth and then straighten said chord. After that they’ll re-engrave my sprials so that they look like gentle waves. Maybe.”
