the point of the exercise...

is more about discipline than content...

or perhaps it is on route to content...

today is a rush job. I'm running late late late and I'm never late so you know what that means!

Friday

J'ai froid. In French, to say I am cold, I must say I have cold. Cold is not a condition, it is a noun, something you have, something you own. I feel it, it is inside me, this cold. It is stuck. It sneaks around my insides and sends shivers to the surface. I can warn up my exterior, I can temporarily ease the discomfort on my skin, I can hug a mug of hot water. I can take a hot shower. Turn on the heater. Keep the electric blanket on. I may even sweat, but the cold is inside.
As is the fire.

"Fire doesn't burn itself."
"It burns out."

Les grandes personnes sont décidément très très bizarres!

Last night I was so very lucky to have to the chance to be visited by the Little Prince. In year twelve, I put in our yearbook that he was my dream date for the formal. In spite of the fact that he is an alien from another planet. In spite of the fact that he doesn't really belong in this reality. In spite of the fact that I didn't even go to our year twelve formal.
And last night, like in so many Winterson novels, he turned out to be a she. How perfect!

This morning I decided that since I had to spend ten dollars on a mini muffin tin, I was going to make the most of it. I made little choc chip muffins from my OWN recipe! That's right folks. No bakery book, no exact quantities, no rules! Something you really should never do in dessert making. But I did, and I have to tell you, for a moment there, I thought it would all turn to slime, cos that's how everything looked, rather slimy, but out come the muffins and they are melt-in-your-mouth delicious! Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm! Go Luce!

More wisdom from my Little Prince:

"One should never listen to flowers. One must admire them and breathe their fragrance. Mine perfumed all my planet, but I did not know how to enjoy her. The tale of claws which irritated me so much should simply have touched my heart... At the time, I was unable to understand anything! I should have based my judgement upon deeds and not words. She cast her fragrance and her radiance over me. I should never have run away from her! I should have guessed at the affection behind her poor little tricks. Flowers are so inconsistent! But I was too young to know how to love her."

Only the impossible is worth the effort!

Some writers repeat and repeat their themes and ideas until they get it right.

This is a story. This is pure fiction. Maybe you'll find yourself in it. Maybe you won't. This is how I rewrite my life.

"There is always the danger of automatic writing. The danger of writing yourself towards an ending that need never be told. At a certain point the story gathers momentum. It convinces itself, and does its best to convince you, that the end in sight is the only possible outcome. There is a fatefulness and a loss of control that are somehow comforting. This was your script, but now it writes itself.

Stop.

Break the narrative. Refuse all the stories that have been told so far (because that is what the momentum really is), and try to tell the story differently - in a different style, with different weights - and allow some air to those elements choked with centuries of use, and give some substance to the floating world.
In quantum reality there are millions of possible worlds, unactualised, potential, perhaps bearing in on us, but only reachable by wormholes we can never find. If we do find one, we don't come back.
In those other worlds events may track our own, but the ending will be different. Sometimes we need a different ending.
I can't take my body through time and space, but I can send my mind, and use stories, written and unwritten, to tumble me out in a place not yet existing - my future."

-The Powerbook, Jeanette Winterson

Last night I got into bed before eleven. A first in a long time. I read for a while, then decided that what I was reading was worth sharing. I climbed out of bed and got my phone, climbed back into my bed and scrolled down my list of contacts until I got to your name.
Dialed.
"Hello!"
"Hey"
"How are you?"
"Yeah good. How are you? "
"The same. What's up?"
"Nothing much. Just feels like a while since we caught up."
"Yeah.. it has been... how was the gig the other night?"
"Good. It was great. Really rocky. Really loud. It was fun."
"Sorry I missed it then."
"That's ok... how's work been?"
"The same.. work is work."
"Oh! I haven't told you yet. I found a job!"
"Yeah? What is it? I read about it on your blog but wasn't sure whether that was fact or fiction."
"I'll be temping for the Red Cross. Start next week. Finally, I'll have some income."
"Income is good."
"Yeah it is... I'm also doing some work for the a French Theatre company."
"And how's that?"
"I don't get to see th play.."
"Why not?"
"Well, I stand outside and deal with ticketing and wait for latecomers and guard the door."
"Sounds like fun."
"No it doesn't. You're just humoring me."
You laugh. I like the way you laugh. It's deep and throaty. It feels warm, like sunny afternoons. It sounds honest. Like an uncle's laughter.
"I'm reading a book."
"What's the book?"
"The Powerbook."
"Have you told me about it before? It sounds familiar.."
"Maybe. I talk about it a lot. I finally bought a copy to keep for myself. It's not as nice as the copy I read. It's not black bound and square at all. It's red and has a naked lady on the front. It's very indiscrete and I try to hide the cover when I'm reading it in public."
That laugh again.
"So what's it about?"
"It's about two women. It's not one story, but many. The characters change. They wear disguises. It's a little bit about writing. About reinventing identity. It's a little bit about the internet. It's a little bit about travel. It's about boundaries. It's about desire. There are lots and lots of passages I like to quote. Or remember. If I highlighted them I would have a very bright book and hardly any white pages. It's a lot about love..."
"Hmm.. ok."
"I shouldn't be reading it."
"So stop."
"I can't. When I finish, I'm going to re-read it. And then when I finish it again, I'm going to re-read it again. And then again and again and again. Maybe until I really can quote from it. Maybe until I know it by heart. Can I read you a passage?"
"Sure."
"What a strange world it is where you can have as much sex as you like but love is taboo..."
"Mmm.."
"I can't do this."
"Ok."
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have even started it. I'm sorry. I can't do this."
"Ok."
"It's all wrong."
"Ok."
"Why does it feel so wrong?"
"Hey, you don't have to do anything."
"My brother's reading a book called The Game. It's about the art of seduction. About a bunch of guys who think they've nailed the formula to pick up any girl they want. They call themselves PUAs. Pick up artists."
"Sounds... interesting."
"I don't know whether to be offended or laugh at it."
"Mmm.."
"Weren't we going to go out together? Weren't we going to be each other's wing and just go out and have some fun?"
"Yeah... yeah we were."
"What happened?"
"It got fucked up."
"Didn't we say we didn't want to do that?"
"Do what?"
"Fuck things up."
"Yeah we did."
"So why did we do it?"
"Cos we're human."
"I'm sorry. This is mean isn't it? To talk to you like this? Does it bother you much?"
"A little. Quite a bit."
"I'm sorry."
"Are you ok?"
"I'm empty."
"Do you want me to come over?"
"No... You know, I used to hate doing this."
"Doing what?"
"Talking on the phone."
"Why?"
"Too much distance. Too much silence wasted."
"I could come over."
"No. I don't want you to come over."
"Ok. What do you want?"
"I want to rewrite my future."
~.~

Flower for today:

When one asks a flower

to answer questions

with one's own voice

and one's own words;

"do they love me,

or love me not...?"

picking off the petals

is like

shooting the messenger

what you're left with is silence

not a solution.

I found this too. But I don't remember who wrote it. I'm pretty sure it isn't me. So to whomever I am plagiarizing, I'm sorry. I have at least admitted these aren't my own words :P

letters and years

I came across a letter last night that I wrote almost three years ago. I didn't remember writing it at all. It led me to some other letters that I wrote, more words and thoughts that I don't remember saying or having. But they felt familiar too. Like remembering why you loved an old friend you hadn't seen in a while. I can only vaguely remember the things that I mention happening, I can only vaguely remember the nights I spent writing. I can't really remember how I really felt at the time. I regret not knowing how a particular weekend passed. Is this how we cope? By forgetting?

In one of my letters, I wrote this: "I was reading old letters ... and I had to smile because I remember but at the same time I don't... I feel slightly embarrassed by the childishness, the naivety we all embraced, I feel older but not at all... because I've grown but continue to grow... If I ever get a chance to have a look at this letter again in a few years time, I will probably cringe, but right now it makes sense... and so that's what matters. Right now matters. The past matters but it's past and cannot be changed. The future.. well, no one knows hey?"

In another letter, I got some advice for how to let go. Well, I must have taken it because I don't remember much the writing of those letters.

In another letter, my friend said I didn't ask questions anymore...

Well, here are my questions: Are these just letters? I didn't imagine it. It happened and it was real and yes it was the past, and it can never be changed, but you can't deny it, and how do you let go of so many thousands of words and thoughts shared?

Is forgetting how we cope?

Muffins!

See those gorgeous little muffins? I made them! I made them!!

Picnic at Hanging Rock

Sometimes a day takes you by surprise
an early start
a bit of a wait
a long drive
a cold awakening
a tiny dog
a lot of good food
funky socks
a plastic cave
a short trek
some stairs
some quiet
a lot of laughs
some rocks
the moon
and more rocks
and more rocks
climbing
a seat
a view
the sun
peace
getting lost
looking for little blue arrows
a koala
a walking run downhill
a skip
a kangaroo
a quiet drive back
chips and chocolate
an hour or so
to wind down
and wind up
for the drive back
xx

Busy Bee!

Yesterday afternoon I got a job! Yay! Won't be starting for a week, so I don't yet know if it's a good job or a bad job, but at least it's working for a worthy organisation: The Red Cross. Better than selling scratchy tickets in the freezing cold at the footy by far! It's only twelve hours a week, but as soon as uni starts, it should be interesting to see how I cope. I assume I'll see my social life slowly disintegrate... :S I also have another job interview on Monday morning for some promo work... depending on the hours of that one, I might really become a little busy bee! Then on Monday afternoon I'm going to help out the Melbourne French Theatre for their production of The Little Prince. Should be fun, I hope I get to see the show as well.

I woke up with a really bad hangover-like dizzy spell this morning... actually, yesterday morning as well. Don't know if it is a sign of lack of sleep catching up, or something else. It's definitely not a sign of any alcohol unless the grapes I'm eating have been fermenting in my stomach.... hmmm... panadol doesn't seem to help. Maybe I need Doritos... Anyway, the waking up in dizzy spells explains my black and blue knees... I can't believe the ugly marks! I don't even remember bumping things! I'm just not one of those girls, made to show their legs...

Anyway, I got a lot done today. Feeling good in spite of dizzi-knees... I got a haircut along with the Big Sis and her other half. Three in a row. While I'm quite happy with my trimmed and neat(er) style, my sis hates, and I mean HATES, like absolutely LOATHES her new haircut. It isn't bad exactly, it's just shorter than she'd like it to be. So I'm guessing that for the next three months or so until her hair grows back to a length she can comfortably tie it up, we're going to be hearing a lot of cursing about the stupid hairdresser...

Then we did a bit a shopping and I bought groceries to prepare for a picnic tomorrow to Hanging Rock! Yay! Sure, it'll be freezing but it'll be fun and we'll have yummy food. I made 35 (yes 35!!!) mini muffins and they taste delicious! Half were basil and parmesan muffins and the other half were carrot and cheese muffins. Mmmmm......... muffins.... they're also super cute. I'm quite proud, if you didn't notice. And for those who don't know, I don't cook much. Mum and Dad are pretty happy in the kitchen and I'm pretty happy being fed by them, so this is a huge achievement! You should all be very proud of me too :) Pictures (of the muffins) may come soon..

And tonight, well, tonight I'm going to see Mia Dyson. I hear she's unmissable. Should be fun. It's been a while since the last gig. Too bad the lovely jesmaq is playing tonight too.. Once again, I'm destined to miss her short stop in Melbourne :(

And then regardless of what time I get home tonight, and I'm guessing late, I'll have to get myself up by 7am to get ready for the picnic tomorrow. I wonder if I'll bump into Miranda...

Well, that's all folks

xx

Promises

He asked me: do you see a pattern?
Of course I do. I'm not stupid. So I promised him I would do these things:
I will write out a playlist for him.
I will do something to raise my heart rate.
I will stretch, relax, release.
I will write out my feelings and admit them.
I will comfort a pillow like it is a crying baby.

Isobel

"In a forest pitch dark, glowed the tiniest spark.
It burst into a flame."

That will be the beginning of my next story. Based on Bjork and Plagiarism. Luke Warm is half finished and stuck... I have had four interviews in three days. I think I am all interviewed out. Miss Catdog and I made a pie and burnt the bottom, then I took some home with me and burnt the top. It was still good! I got a job selling scratchy tickets at the footy, then decided that standing in the freezing cold and making fifty cents per ticket sold isn't going to be worth it. I also unenrolled from a subject I really want to do. So if I don't get a job soon, I may just go to the lectures and buy the reading material anyway. The passion is ending and I don't want it to.. so I read extra slow. I did a lot of driving and getting lost today. Other universities are so much scarier than Melbourne. Might be going out tonight. Fingers crossed, it's been a long time
xx

Trouble Sleeping

i got a present:
a little sheep
to help me sleep
:)

do you look at the clock at eleven minute increments?

chère mon amie,

last night i wrote you a letter. well, half a letter. and then it got too difficult and i decided it wasn't a very good letter and it didn't say very much save the things that mean very little. so i put my pen away and closed the notebook, and it wasn't as if i had planned it or anything, so it was no big deal, and even though i could have read, i could have written something else, finished off my story perhaps, even though i wasn't at all sleepy, i felt very tired and so i decided to turn off the light and try to fall asleep. i thought about the little sheep my friend had given me, something to count she had said and it made me smile but didn't help me sleep. then i thought about my other friend, and her pink-ness and thought how different we were although we are the same age, and how it was all so different, there is no one, now, to swap with me non-sensible but clearly grammatical sentences on a daily basis and although they're here and you are not, i could not let myself give in to that same innocence of trust that we had. is this cynicism? is this bitterness? the night does not taste bitter to me, but the sweetness makes it sad because it doesn't last. and while darkness is always warmer than white because white lets nothing in while the dark absorbs all, it got very cold last night.

regards 101

the lady of light xx

thought for the day

this is running more like a thought for a day
i have a love-hate relationship with the number 11
or perhaps it is just the number one
they're everywhere
has anyone else noticed that the number 11 is everywhere?
they're everywhere and yet without meaning
even i can't create a meaning for their existence
they mock me like a sign
and yet
they're empty
there's no history with the number eleven

actually, i forget
there is
three out of four
and when i say i forget
i lie
i never forget

here are eleven things i need to do:
clean my room
light a candle
drive to deakin
fill in a form
send it
get out of bed earlier
move more
read slower
write something that makes sense
stay distracted
stop waiting for 11 o'clock

learning from Venice

There was nothing more that could be said without strain or repetition. I had been with her more than five hours already and it was time to leave. As we stood up and she moved to get something I stretched out my arm, that was all, and she turned back into my arms so that my hands were on her shoulder blades and hers along my spine. We stayed thus for a few moments until I had courage enough to kiss her neck very lightly. She did not pull away. I grew bolder and kissed her mouth, biting at the lower lip.
She kissed me.
"I can't make love to you," she said.
Relief and despair.
"But I can kiss you."
And so, from the first, we separated our pleasure. She lay on the rug and I lay at right angels to her so that only our lips might meet. Kissing in this way is the strangest of distractions. The greedy body that clamours for satisfaction is forced to content itself with a single sensation and, just as the blind hear more acutely and the deaf feel the grass grow, so the mouth becomes the focus of love and all things pass through it and are re-defined. It is sweet and precise torture.

Jeanette Winterson, The Passion, p. 67.

When it is a day so cold my own words are hiding, it does less harm to learn.

somewhere between fear and sex passion is

children's games

"whatever it is, we're out of time, why do you always call so late?"

"you don't sleep with your mates, you don't sleep with your mates girlfriends"

writing everyday is harder than i thought it would be. but then again, this is more about discipline than quality.
there's a game you should never play.
jamais jamais!!
mon seul trésor c'est toi

today i went shopping, and just like i said, buying things make me feel good
last night i played scrabble until midnight and won
mais c'était notre jeu

what does the word mean when it is missing?

I've found my favourite flowers!

Calla Lillies!



and more:



but my absolute favourite (for the moment) has to be this one:

the Passion

No, not Mel Gibson's. Winterson's. Or perhaps Napolean's.

I remember reading this a few years ago, and then not finishing it, but as I read it now, nothing seems familiar. And yet, Oranges felt like deja vu. I guess it's just like Tony says, we read too fast and we write too fast. We do everything a little fast, and I'm finding this a useful thing to know, because as I slow it down, as I really begin to read sentence for sentence, there is meaning where I would have missed it before.

Writing is hard. I should remember that. It takes practice and I've run out, that's why I'm doing this. Each day a page. Not for you, but for it to start flowing again. Sometimes I really don't think I can even squeeze out a word, let alone a nice comprehensible rant, but it helps to keep it going. All language, all fitness, is like this. Let it go and it becomes stiff. Rusty. I can literally feel the grammar slipping through my fingers as I struggle to read and reread what seems to be a change of tense and yet sounds right.

I'm writing a story called Luke Warm. But I might change the title because it gives too much away. It's nice to write, scratch on paper, and it's new, and it feels good to stop walking in the middle of the city because a sentence comes to you better than it did the night before and you just have to write it down before you forget it again, before it slips away like love. I think I have the plot figured out, but it may change. Even the theme may change. The theme is, what's good for me isn't necessarily good for you. It seems obvious, but like so many other blatantly obvious things in life, people forget. And it's not really even to remind other people not to forget that I want to write it, it's more... it's more like, wow, it works so well in this story, in this particular circumstance.

My lecturers keep giving me extensions for assignments I have already completed and handed in....

From London to New York to London again

I stayed up all night finishing a book because I thought I was reading a love story. It wasn't a love story at all. It was more a story about running away. About denying things you can never not be. About accepting that what you can and cannot put up with are not the same as what even your closest and dearest can and cannot put up with. It was, of course, about God. too.

When you've barely slept, having stayed up all night reading about God and running away, and not finding the love story you wanted to read, it probably isn't a great idea to tell people that yes, catching up would be a fine thing to do the next day. But that's exactly the type of thing I love to do.

When I walked into Melbourne Central it felt warm. Of course it would when I had just come in from the freezing outside. But when you're me, and you're always early, and you're cold blooded, sitting still in an open air space is not exactly the best way to keep warm. I think I was shivering by the time she arrived. Five minutes late.
"You're so dependably late," I say, standing up.
"Hi," she kisses my cheek and I can't help the blush. It feels wrong. Here. I think of all those strangers I'd brushed cheeks with in France and how I'd barely given it a thought there because everyone did it, and yet, here I was receiving a kiss from an old friend and I felt embarrassed.
"Shall we get a drink?"
"Sure. You still drinking coffee?" We start walking, instinctively in the same direction.
"Umm.. no, I've given it up."
"Good. I always said it was shit for you."
"You say that like I had a relationship with coffee."
"You did. You loved it. But only because it smelt so good, and because everyone else was drinking it and because it was the thing to do. But it wasn't good to you. You wouldn't believe me when I told you. It was only messing with you."
"Are you calling me shallow?"
She grinned at me. "I think I am."
"Thanks. Well, now that I've given it up for good, you can bag it all you like and you won't have to feel guilty if I ever take it back."
"Cos you won't?"
"No, cos you're not expected to like my choices in love."
"I see." She looked thoughtful. But we'd arrived outside the café. "umm.. So if you're not drinking coffee and I don't touch the stuff, what're we doing here?"
"They'll have other drinks."
"They do a shit hot chocolate."
"I'll translate that to mean, you want a hot chocolate and you don't want it here."
"Good work. Let's go Coco Black."

We order a hot chocolate each at Coco Black. I refrain from getting anything else, knowing full well I can't really afford it and that I won't be able to stomach so much chocolate in one sitting. Not even with help. I try a joke,
"You know, I think we'll be catching up quite a bit, seeing as you are finally back in the country for an indefinite amount of time and I have nothing better to do and no one else to irritate."
"Thanks. It's nice to see you again too."
"I'm just saying, we should probably find other drinks to like, and mix it up a bit."
"Come to my place next time and we'll have tea."
"I know a really nice cocktail bar..."
"It's 11am in the morning, and I thought you were broke."
"I am. But I feel hungover anyway, so what's a couple of drinks?" She doesn't laugh at my joke. She doesn't even smile. She frowns,
"You look... crap."
"Gee, thanks. And to think you even paused to try and find the right word."
"You're too pale."
"It's winter. I missed summer. Where was I s'pose to get myself a tan?"
"You're too thin."
"I'm not."
"You look like you haven't slept in a month."
"I haven't."
"You're not starving yourself are you?"
"Technically, it shouldn't be considered starving myself if I don't feel hungry."
"Technically, it's called anorexia and it's not funny."
"I'm not anorexic. I eat."
"Not enough, apparently."
"Oh come on, K. I didn't come out for this. I thought we were gonna have fun. It's not fun you talking to me like I'm a patient or something.."
"I'm talking to you like you're a friend."
I try to make it light again. Joke. "Must be every girl's dream, hey, to see their ex and be able to say they look like shit."
"I'm not the reason."
"Joke. Come on, K. Joke. Lighten up. Make me laugh. I promise if you make me laugh it'll make me hungry and then I'll eat up and become fat and then you can tell everyone that your ex got fat cos of you."
"Promise?"
"Promise."

books and travel

Stories can take you somewhere even music cannot.

It seems obvious, but I only really realised this recently.

Last night I went to 19th century London. But it wasn't London that interested me. It wasn't even the going back in time part. It was the going into someone else's head part. Other people's lives are always infinitely more interesting than my own.

Last night I visited, or I should say, revisited, Maud and Sue and Zena. Or rather it was a bit of a mix between them and Sally and Elaine. All rolled into one. I am finding Sally more and more beautiful while Elaine's voice plays with my heartstrings a little more than a little. Damn! I missed Ghost Squad last week.... what the hell happened to Friday and where on earth was I?

You see, it's easier in a book. It's easy to keep turning and turning the pages while a person's life and heart fall out into yourself and it happens at super speed but it doesn't feel like it, years could pass in a book in only a matter of hours, and the only time you realise that time has passed is if you look up, or you've been interrupted and the cold hits you or the voices of this world, this time.

When you have nothing else need doing, it's easy to forget it as long as you have a book.

I woke up fitfully from a dream last night where she told me she'd been very happy and it made me miserable. Books can dent your perspective of what is right and what is wrong. There is no such thing anyway.

I woke up another night, I think maybe the same night, or the one before, or after, which would be tonight, and I couldn't see a thing, only hear the rain, thundering rain and knew that it was all rain and storm and rain and cold but I was warm and it was just the rain and I wasn't quite awake yet so I was quite happy to listen to it, to the rain, until I fell back to sleep again, and forgot about the rain or maybe it went into my dreams and I was sitting in a car and it rained all around us so that you couldn't see, you couldn't see past the rain, it formed a kind of blanket, the rain did, it closed us off and then it was all ok because in spite of the rain it was warm.

I bought two new books today. I am sure I shall finish them before the week is over and yet I needed to buy them, like one needs to hear the rain, like one needs to have a cup of tea in the morning with their panadol, to forget about the too much sleep, and I needed these books to help me pass these next few nights. And then when it's over, there will be more nights to fill with more books, it's ok, I s'pose, if you go to a library, but when you don't and you want to own everything you ever touch, that ever touches you, it gets rather expensive and you don't realise the price you pay until months later when you have nothing left, nothing left to give in exchange for new shiny pretty books that only last a night or two and then you realise that it probably wasn't worth it, but it's always worth it and you know it, because in a few months, maybe years, you always pick up the books again and they are new. They are old and they have formed you and the characters, they eat away at your heart but they are new in different light.

I think I shall go to London. It played a lot on my mind today. I had daydreams of becoming a Shane or perhaps meeting a Shane and then it would be fun, for a while, to play it like that, to know that it is all about running away and play it anyway.

One of my new books is shiny and purple and called disobedience. It looks trashy and cheap, but I found it and that made it special.

Je te défie à m’aimer

joyeux anniversaire

"Often I have had that thought: over and done with and too late.

When such thoughts present themselves, I know that I am thinking like an adult. Growing up means first of all to forget, and thereafter disown what was important when you were a child. To this I have then raised objections.
Even if it was over and too late, and altogether pretty insignificant, still it was your life. And around that, everything since then has revolved."

Borderliners, Peter Hoeg, pp. 194-195.

I haven't been this stuck in a long time. Or perhaps I have been stuck for a long time and have just realised it. Not being able to drive is shit.
How do you claim freedom when all thought is discourse?
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

It's nice to find someone who knows the same lyrics that you do.
It was nice to feel comfortable enough around someone to sing with all heart and no talent.
Sound like you mean it when you're screeching it out.
Damien Rice style.
I wanna hear what you have to say about me...
I'm not used to being a passenger. It makes me car sick on long drives.
Singing helps.
Of course you don't, Of course you don't...
Because it makes us laugh with tears in our eyes.
And you say to me that it's ok to cry.
But I tell you that I can't
tell stories anymore.
Linear time has escaped me.
Days disappear.

And it's quite funny. On a mountain top. To lose the plot.
So that writing becomes 'empty'.
Your words echo mine.
Iron
y?

Un jour, c'est sur. Je volerai!

xx