Post for Friday, April 7th (I had technical difficulties)
This is the final conclusion of my narrative.

The delicate flowers sway whimsically from side to side using their paintbrush-like petals to caress the creamy backdrop with transparent magic: blue, green, pink, and yellow watercolors. The dark bus seems odd. Occasionally I hear a cough, and a puff of cigarette smoke streams towards me. It reminds me of a circus, but not an extant one, one depicted in some artsy independent film. We will go and find boys we think are cute and talk to them about nothing and then they will feel us and we will go crazy wild with life; we will run through woods together, this Texas girl Kim and I, drunk but laughing and falling and oh, and oh we will cry and fight and hate and love and hurt. My 10th grade English teacher Mr. Clara: the man that taught me to love and appreciate writing and literature, Mt. Pleasant High School. The scent of weed resonates every taste bud in my mouth and I am suddenly awkwardly hungry. Shit, its 11 pm, I should go home soon so I’m not too tired for church. I am sitting on my bunk bead, buried in a pile of notepaper and text books.
It’s like angel hair, this memory.
Today’s lesson: all this; all me.
Varying, collaborative, and intact (color, color, color).