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the story girl.

September 15th, 2005 (09:52 am)

My first thought on what to name this journal was, "thestorygirl." To my disappointment, somebody already had this. I looked her up and now, you know, she's the person on my Friends List.
I want to pick out some of the things that especially pleased me in her journal so that you may know how lovely she is:


This time a hundred years ago I'll be churning butter and humming an old-fashioned tune.
*
There, shining and sparkling just for me, were the Seven Sisters.

My favorite stars.

The little ones.

My friends.
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I made a gingerbread house today.
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I had a wonderful Christmas, complete with family and flaming Christmas pudding.
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...a hawk perched like a sentinel in a barren tree...
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I AM RISKING MY LIFE FOR MY ART.
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And I know things now
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A gentleman held the door for me, and I felt beautiful. Being treated like a lady always inspires me.
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I have been dreaming of truffles for a week.
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Thursday had been executed.
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I am so afraid to die. I have so much to do. All of a sudden it strikes me that if I were gone this livejournal would remain here, a testament to my giddy addiction to trivialities.

I'm feeling panicky or something. I don't want to go out. What brought this on?

Think of something beautiful. Right. Imagination's pure delights.

What if people I don't like came to my funeral??

I can't die. Right?
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If anyone today has a life that resembles a Norman Rockwell painting, I do.
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...springtime and lilacs and the little sparrows that remind me of Heaven, and the beauty and miracle of language...
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Something exciting is bound to happen when I have robins at my window.
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The sunshine sprinkled freckles on my nose
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There's so much to write that I can't think of anything else to write. thestorygirl's saying this is notable only because I seem to recall saying the exact same words.
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despite war and hate and every kind of wickedness, there is still Beauty in every single day.

I am one of the lucky ones.
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The Man in the Moon won't even talk to me tonight.
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I can't wait for the first woodsmoke wind.

How can anyone care for any other season? God clearly bestowed his choicest gifts on Autumn. The light is most golden, the weather most fine, the harvest most plentiful, and the colours most beautiful.
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Death has lost its sting, and the grave does NOT have the victory!
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[Birdsong] sounds an echo in my soul; How can I keep from singing?