"Blogging isn't journalism, it's graffiti with punctuation."

>and the sun burns my skin; come cool me down

>my barcelonian days have been a cornucopia of bus tours, museums, spaniards with decolletage eyes, and sandy beaches with bursting grapes and soggy passports (my lebanese visa is now smudged and/or illegible and i wonder if they´ll let me into the country with it).

all i can think about today is water. the mediterranean water i dove into, performed underwater handstands in, swirled around my torso like a baton, and floated belly up in like an everpresent coccoon. the shower water that spirited away the sand from behind my ears, yet left my skin tough and in need of milky lotion. the tap water i inflated my water bottle with that soured my tongue and left me dying for the evian that i cannot afford anymore.

this has been my hostel, and the high ceilings contain the ghosts of past inhabitants. i leave early for madrid, not because i have grown tired already of this city, but because my thirst for more has gotten the better of me.

not really an adventurous spirit, more like a collossal prick learning to mellow.

there are stories of burnt toes and split ends. all i can think about is water.

there are stories of irate backward glances and hands that do not touch. sometimes i am a dead girl.

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