Below are the 3 most recent journal entries recorded in thesinsofsaints' InsaneJournal:

Monday, November 17th, 2008
8:46 pm	Valentine had only ever had a real crush on four people. One was David Bowie in the Labyrinth when he was six, the next was a foreign exchange student he’d gone to high school who didn’t speak any English, the third, a strange fairy prince that he was certain he’d never see again and the forth, well, he hadn’t worked up the nerve to call since being slipped his number the first time they met. Much to Devon’s annoyance, the little he knew of the punk rocker was still enough for him to constantly mention something, Oh Alison likes this band, oh, Alison would look good in that deconstructed Vivienne Westwood top… He tried to do it casually, but as it were, nothing Valentine ever did was comfortable enough to be considered casual. So finally, on the day the Alison had off-handedly mentioned as his birthday Devon had had enough and held the small boy hostage in the passenger seat of her car until he called. The result of which was a strange, yet endearing (like Valentine himself) message, that seemed to be inviting Alison to the club, “Oh, uh, h-hey,” a long pause. Devon was in the background snarling something about ‘just talk you weirdo,’ and he continued, “Yeah, so I remember it’s…well, it’s your birthday. H-happy birthday,” he cringed. But bravely kept on, “I mean you probably have some plans or something but the club, well, I just, there’s…if you want to come, I’m not Djing, but you could come anyway-I’ll tell Whitney not to charge you, like maybe, midnight? Oh-ok…yeah,” He fumbled with his phone to hang it up but just before he pushed the button he frantically held it up to his face again, as if to catch the message before time ran out, “Oh th-this is Valenti-” and the machine cut him of. (7 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, October 24th, 2008
10:20 pm	France was. Is. Shaun hadn’t stopped smiling since the initial crack crept on his face at the end of the Gucci runway, except for shuddering moans here and there, and by that it meant…literally here and there. Street corners, bookstores, what was it about Paris? Wine in the middle of the day? Beautiful art? Or maybe just the romance of wet grass and muddy fabric rekindled from over a year ago when the two had met. Shaun had seen a strange role reversal happen with Joseph, it seemed some of that silly idealism Shaun was so keen on finally began to break the surface of Joseph’s olive skin and sink in, and here they were-modern fairytales, urban bohemians walking hand and hand well after three AM, lost somewhere in Paris. Despite his recent struggles to maintain such vivid ideals, Shaun was swept off his proverbial feet by Joseph’s dramatic birthday gesture and for four days and three nights there had been nothing but sex, smiles and a lot of French desserts. The haze of a recent rain was splayed by golden hues of streetlights, glittering of the historical cobblestones of the streets and sidewalks. Shaun’s white shoes clicked loudly against the asphalt and his breath mingled in the air as temperatures began to drop. He was dressed just for Joseph, bright white skinny pants and matching vest layered with a peacoat and rather decadent fur collar, turned up naturally. He loved that Parisians appreciated his eccentric fashion sense, and something about the scene seemed so natural and strangely familiar, like maybe he’d imagined it once when times had gotten so harsh. Though they’d been lost for over an hour after leaving the very late dinner, neither of them seems particularly concerned in solving the problem. He skipped a step or two ahead, careful to keep fingers tightly entwined and pivoted to face Joseph as he walked backwards, “Hey,” he grinned and paused. “Hey I’ve got a question…” (14 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, September 12th, 2008
5:05 am	It starts always with the dull hum of machinery. The rhythmic sound of battery operated soulless mechanics wheezing in time with real breath. Or an artificial and unpleasant beep that callously replaces the thunderous warmth of a pulse. And then the smell. Sterile fumes of alcohol and fresh plastic swarming delayed senses. Next blackness gives way and a blurry haze of shadowy figures and those same, tiled Styrofoam ceiling come into view. Always the same ceilings. Always the buzzing flicker of florescent light. The pixilated images tighten and congealed to form shapes that the brain recognizes as people, lamps, IV’s… Shaun recognized his toes at the end of the bed. He moved them slightly, the muggy puddle of the world slowly became something and he was drowsily putting together the missing pieces of the past hour or so. He was awake. And he was in a hospital. His pristine figure was clung to by flimsy couture, soaked through with sweat and splotches of blood then torn away in moments of desperation. Tender flesh was intruded upon by tubing and needles and chemicals meant to put right all the things that went wrong twenty three years ago when he was just barley born. A frumpy nurse, so round in her white uniform-like a little snowman moved about, and his head lazily limped to one side as they brought in another patient into the emergency room. People…all these people…Jude must have called the ambulance…Jude…where is…Joseph? The doctor was saying something to him, no, not to him, to the nurse putting something else in his I.V. But he had to call Joseph, Joseph had gotten him a phone, he had to… “You have to calm down, Mr. Hurst. Just lie back down.” The little snowman was talking to him. Apparently he was sitting up. Even her hair was white. He did as she asked. His eyes found his toes again. Dry lips cracked and he muttered, "Wh-where...are my shoes?" (21 Comments |Comment on this)