:: Searching for Puck... ::

:: Sunday, September 29, 2002 ::

Things are unsettled and a great stormcloud moves over my life.

My heart is like ice, these days. Something happened, a matter of the heart, one I cannot delve too deeply into.

I smile and move like I am alive, but inside, I wither into a brittle husk of spirit. Three meals only for the whole of three days, to clear my mind, my body...and, I had hoped, my heart.

But still there is that twisting and bitterly cold seed of fear that hands I formerly leant towards planted. I feel so hollow and empty, that a great wind would vanquish what little remains of my will to take an active role in the day's passing any longer.

And so I cry out, with every fiber, every facet of all my will and all I have to give, for the aid of the goddess to come to me and make things allright once more. At times, I feel my prayers are bootless.

My ink has dried, my pen has died, my spirit wither'd, and so am I.

~Fox Mackenzie
:: Fox 9/29/2002 09:49:00 PM [Say what?] ::
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