Restless feet, restless heart, transitory people… never here, never there, never anywhere long enough to let go of that preeminent paranoia… delightfully deceptive, holding her cards to her chest, too wary to play her hand, too afraid to ease open that door ever so gently… her practiced laugh, her repertoire of repeatable words, the stories she loves to tell… always something and someone to blame… ever the same, she never changes… transitory people… dear boy, haven’t you heard of her, of her kind? Did no one warn you… how her nature is to steal hearts and trample on souls and invent excuses, always keeping to that train of thought, that everlasting excuse “I won’t be here… I’m going away…” because she never settles, she never breathes, she never ever slows down and enjoys one moment, just that one moment… she wanders around capturing photographic moments in time so she remembers later on when she’s not there because she’s never there she’s never anywhere… didn’t you see it? The hollowness in her eyes, the carelessness lingering on her lips… she is never satisfied. You are just another pawn in the game her kind loves to play. Transitory people, baby. Chameleons. They fit in everywhere because they belong nowhere. Don’t get too addicted, dear boy… she’s always only just passing through…
— from the Archives: Aug. 31, 2006
