Ne plus ultra.

Barely four words in thirty-six hours, this despite an ill attempted happy hour, a dinner eaten as if it were the first in a thousand years. It's good that it's so quiet now, because it is what it is, and though what it is no longer gives me comfort I think perhaps the fact that I needed secrets for comfort is... not better. I can't bring myself to say that this is better.

It is different is what it is, level for sure but below sea level I think, and how appropriate is that for a little girl who only ever held her own in the City Beneath the Sea? When I left New Orleans for the District Jazzland had barely opened, and I missed out on those shiny new coasters, sticky blue cotton candy in my hair and cinnamon sugar stuck to my lips. What I wouldn't give for an elephant ear right now, or even a funnel cake poor substitute that it is. I want to be strapped into a whirly bird, soar high above the sky and free fall. I want to sit in a teacup, spin round and round until I'm lost. I want what I've not got, because I vaguely remember having it once, my very own carny prize.