Words and pages.

Oh the corner of  my heart that holds all my muses, tight and safe, is surely ready to burst. In fact, if I were to show the lists I have on my phone to any professor I've ever had, they'd cringe at all the unfinished bits -- sentences leading nowhere, a surplus of topics from tiny poems and musings I write, to addresses of dear friends, recipes, HBO program reminders, and the always frequent flyer read this book! memo.

But perhaps the guiltiest and utmost accusable is my love affair with journals. I have much too many but never enough. They hold what comes out of my head at those unpredictable times of the evening -- and day for that matter. Art, poems, quotes new and old, pressed flowers and calligraphy practice are all tucked away between those covers. And I mustn't forget blackout poetry -- being terrifically challenging in all the best ways. It is my newest hobby. I do intend to come up with a sorting method, for space and sanity, but for now I shall photograph them. Consider this post an ode to my collection. Aren't they magic?