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原來我也可以
「覺得跟誰說話，可以放鬆的做我自己:))))
開心的一起吃甜甜圈，走路
一起躺在新蓋的圖書館外的長椅上看天空
有月亮有飛機，發呆聊天
她手指拿著菸的姿態，燃起薄荷味很清淡
我的新朋友:)))」
拒絕內疚
if my family, my education, my judgement, and my consciousness cultivates me to be a person like who i am now, then i will never surrender, compromise, and give up to the society and silent oppression.
i am what i am.
hypocrites and pricks?
go fuck themselves.
千金難買早知道
希望不要一直沉浸在後悔的情緒裡，現在說這些都來不及了。怪我自己笨吧、傻啊、天真啊，也罷，反正一切都來不及了。每次都會想到，如果現在我放手一切，那將會是多麼開闊。但每想到此，又無法不顧慮他人對我的評價，以及我會對此事帶來的影響與後果。我們一氣呵成，無法單打獨鬥，但又想到當狼首以及孤狼的自由。然而，Every wolf has its own clan，我也不例外。唉，到底什麼時候才會看開啊？...... 這樣一直煩死自己也不是好辦法。呃啊...... 好沉重。我為什麼要對自己這樣子？千金難買早知道啊。
Semisonic, Shunshine and chocolate + lyrics
All my life I've been looking for
The perfect mate
And when I finally found the one
It was almost too late
Underneath the auditorium
She showed me why
I would have waited all of my life
For somebody like
Sunshine and chocolate all over me
In my mouth and on my tree
Round my body under my hat
Sunshine and chocolate just... like... that
I was alone when I woke up
And found the note
It said you surely know how to fuck
But I gotta go
I hope you find someone to take care of
And give yourself to
And until I get to kiss you again I wish you
Sunshine and chocolate every day
In your work and in your play
In your mouth and down your back
I wish you, I wish you, I wish you that
Sunshine and chocolate all over you
Over everything you do
On your body and in your mind
Sunshine, chocolate, everything fine
Now my eyes are open wide
As I travel around
Maybe some summer day I'll find
Her face in the crowd singing...
Sunshine and chocolate everyday
In your work and in your play
In your mouth and down your back
I wish you, I wish you, I wish you that
Sunshine and chocolate all over you
Over everything you do
On your body and in your mind
Sunshine, chocolate, everything fine
Manchester Orchestra - Everything To Nothing (Live Abbey Road 2009)
Definitely not the things that I'm seeing
Did i think id see so instantly
I found a note in my grandfather's coat
when I read it out loud I got cold
'Cause he said
I'm not complaining
yeah i was just saying
I'm a man, I'm a lost one you see
come down with me to a place
we'll get clean
and we'll meet with them eventually
you mean everything
I don't know much but a crutch is a crutch
if its holding you from moving on
I don't know what to do not anymore, not anymore
I don't know what to do not anymore, not anymore
and you
well you mean
everything
you mean everything to nothing
you mean everything to nothing
you mean everything to nobody but me
you mean everything to nothing
you mean everything to nobody but me
"Draw me into your footsteps, let us run."
如果一生中能遇到某人，讓你能夠對著他說出這句話：
"Draw me into your footsteps, let us run."而他也願意拉著你，一起奔跑，那人生就值得了。
或者，一生中，能讓某人對你說出這句話，那也不枉此生。
或者，遇到某人，讓你想要和他一起牽著手坐在一起看著世界毀滅、看著末日到來，那也值得了。
人生啊
今天和小毛吃晚餐，聊了好多，好開心能和好朋友好好的聊天、談心事。從近況到理想，還有幻滅，和坦誠。唉，有顆蒼老的心...... 竟然在談話間二度落淚。聽到有人替我禱告，真的很感動，而且還只有過一面之緣，他卻願意替朋友的朋友誠心誠意地祈禱。我，何德何能？我當時說完我好感動就真的差點哽咽，因為我...... 真的很感謝有人能真心爲我祈禱，即使我不信教，但是我真的被感動了，直到現在我仍是邊寫邊掉淚。
仔細回想這幾個月經歷的一些事，在想到理想，唉，和這個世界和社會。我覺得好心煩。謝謝小毛願意花時間陪我，鼓勵我、安慰我，聆聽我的不滿、憤怒、失望，還有一直破滅又組起來的小夢想。
真的很開心有人願意陪我，真心地為我做某件事、真心地了解我和安慰我。因為我發現我內心是孤獨的。沒有希望也沒有什麼夢想，只剩滿滿的心煩。
我還有好多好多的東西要學，學習如何諒解、寬容，學習如何謙卑地被領導，學習如何熬過磨練，學習如何愛與被愛。學習如何全然放空，讓自己解脫，並了解這一切其實都會過去。
謝謝小毛，我的內心存滿感激。
Manchester Orchestra - Girl With Broken Wings (Nobody Sings Anymore)
On the porch, she will sit,
Light another cigarette,
And take a sip of anything that makes it right.
She's outside, trying to hide from the fight just inside,
Where her mom and her dad destroy each other
And on the phone she will call
Every boy, yeah, one and all.
They will touch her in all the right places.
And in her room, she will slide
Down the bed and try to fly,
And she will fall once again for the feeling
And as he grabs her brown hair,
She is faking
That the feeling he gives her is real
As the floor underneath the bed is
Breaking
She will finish what she starts with "I love you."
[ Lyrics from: http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/m/manchester_orchestra/girl_with_broken_wings.html ]
So from her head to her toes,
Nervous hands and runny nose,
All of this just for one night of feeling
And in her ears she will hear
All the things that hide her fears
Of dying young and making plans for the future.
And all the marks on her arms
Symbolize a fractured heart
And all the boys that were smart
Left her alone
So from the roof, she will fly
15 feet down the side
Of the house where she once was happy
Yes it's true, she's aware
That she is breaking
And it's true, she can't do anything
Well in her blue underwear
She is thinking how
In Jesus' precious name
She got here
Well it's sad but it's true
She is ending
But for now, she will pray for some wings
On a black Cadillac she is landing hard
Yet her parents' biggest worry is the car
草泥馬
草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬草泥馬
can't get further
i hate the trophy wife types... but i'd really love to be one of them!
how nice it would be if i could live without brain and talents but only with vulnerable beauty!
Codeine - Cave-In
Last night I dreamt your face
The skin was falling off
The flesh was turning grey
This is a cave in
I said I'd stay
Cave in
Said I'd stay
Last I had a dream
Your eyes were lit by fire
The way you tried to smile
The way you couldn't smile
This is a cave in
I said I'd stay
Cave in
Said I'd stay
These things take so long
So let me help it some
These things take so long
So let me help it some
才貌兼具
很難嗎？唉
人才都到哪去了？
不需要上妝或很誇張的花枝招展或是潮男潮女，只要亁乾淨淨體面、五官端正就好，然後又有才華和能力，很難嗎？
很難嗎？很難嗎？很難嗎？很難嗎？很難嗎？很難嗎？很難嗎？很難嗎？很難嗎？很難嗎？
anti-system! (hold tight your fist!)
Money can't fulfill dreams, but mentality does.
You can't help to be worldly, but you can choose to be honest to your conscience.
Spirituality
"Draw me in your footsteps, let us run." -- Songs of songs
I don't know how to express this feeling, but I feel an extension of my consciousness after reading this line.
I read it upon reading a book I accidentally found in the HSS library. It's called "Aelred's Sin."
What actually attracts me is these written recommendations:
"Aelred's Sin is suffused with perfumed memories of the tropics and he heat of broken desires." -- Marina Warner
"This is a moving and beautiful book. It is a tragedy in the classical sense, in that it reveals the profound sorrow that often lies at the heart of conflicting human loves. But it is also a universal plea to let love speak its many names to a world that has need of them all." -- Richard Holloway
Isn't it just beautiful?
So I borrowed it and read a bit.
Draw me in your footsteps, let us run...
還滿喜歡洋人的擁抱文化的，希望身邊的人可以開始一起學習以擁抱代替揮手告別的習慣 ㄎㄎ
擁抱時可以感受人與人的存在，有安全感也有自在感，彷彿回到娘胎裡那種最淳樸的人性溫暖
一種原始的人與人互動，不需要語言來闡述，只要一個簡單的動作就可以傳達各種複雜的情感
言簡易賅動作
Howl
Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997)
Howl
For Carl Solomon
I
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping towards poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
a lost batallion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the railway yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the universe instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving nothing behind but the shadow of dungarees and the larva and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism, who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman's loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but were prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses' rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hungover with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open full of steamheat and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the appartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of the Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts, who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for an Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other's salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturerson Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with the shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,
Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,
with mother finally *****, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger on the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination—
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the total animal soup of time—
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrating plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soulbetween 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,
and rose incarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.
II
What sphinx of cement and aluminium bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?
Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgement! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovas! Moloch whose factories dream and choke in the fog! Moloch whose smokestacks and antennae crown the cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisable suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstacies! gone down the American river!
Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years' animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!
Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!
III
Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland
where you're madder than I am
I'm with you in Rockland
where you must feel strange
I'm with you in Rockland
where you imitate the shade of my mother
I'm with you in Rockland
where you've murdered your twelve secretaries
I'm with you in Rockland
where you laugh at this invisible humour
I'm with you in Rockland
where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter
I'm with you in Rockland
where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio
I'm with you in Rockland
where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses
I'm with you in Rockland
where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Utica
I'm with you in Rockland
where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx
I'm with you in Rockland
where you scream in a straightjacket that you're losing the game of actual pingpong of the abyss
I'm with you in Rockland
where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse
I'm with you in Rockland
where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void
I'm with you in Rockland
where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha
I'm with you in Rockland
where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb
I'm with you in Rockland
where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale
I'm with you in Rockland
where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and won't let us sleep
I'm with you in Rockland
where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls' airplanes roaring over the roof they've come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls collapse O skinny legions run outside O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here O victory forget your underwear we're free
I'm with you in Rockland
in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night
"And whence they came and whither they shall go
The dew upon their feet shall manifest."
-- Wallace Stevens
don't play games with me. i'm too transcendental to understand this worldly worry. love, hatred, happiness, and sorrow. they should not belong here. my mind / emotion / thoughts. i dislike this physical fragility. so is the unstable mentality. will of iron is what i would like to possess. total exclusion from any forms of human emotions and relations.
but i've realized that human beings have been forced to be social after hundred centuries of evolution. we can't live without community. even wolves have their own clans. even the loner of the century - emerson and thoureau - were married. even the queer of the century - woolf - was accompanied.
even when christopher mccandless set out a journey to the wild to re-possess the human essence, he found out that happiness is at its greatest amount when it is shared...
how pathetic human beings are. we can't even be a totally 'self-reliance.' we can't be a tree, or a strain of flower, or a rock. human beings are born to be together. together we form society, crimes, desires, vanity, fairness, jealousy, happiness, passion, greed, hatred, sorrow, and love...
so i've found it a tragedy to admit that i, as a human being, cannot live alone. i need a company more than a friendship. sad but true. god, how i loathe it to admit this. by admitting this, i've realized that how fragile, worldly, and weak i am. i can't even endure the years of solitude after my years of practices.
it's like a peril of my ideals and expectations. perhaps i was just being to surrealism. it's time to get myself back on the ground.
accept yourself so you can accept the world.
every wolf has its own clan. that is the rule of the nature.
Zaz - Prends garde à ta langue
Aie, aie, ce que tu peux être crédule
De ces gens malhonnêtes
Qui te promettent la lune,
Leur laissant ton pouvoir
Pour qu'ils te manipulent,
ta précieuse liberté
Et parfois même tes tunes.
C'est fou, tu te crois à l'abri
Tu te moques du monde
Que tu juges avec mépris.
Bien trop intelligent
Pour, dans ce piège être pris
Tu te voiles bien la face
Et se joue ce qui suit
Aveuglé par l'or sortant de sa bouche,
Tu bois ses paroles délicieusement à la louche
Ne vois-tu pas loucher ce fou qui t'éclabousse
De son air aguicheur et te conte sa soupe
Hey sale fripon, prends garde à ta langue
Je suis le chat qui te la mangera
A ce jeu là tu n'y gagneras pas
Un jour ou l'autre, on récolte le bâton
Nan, nan ne tombe pas dans le piège
De cet énergumène et de ses sortilèges
A trop vouloir entendre ce qui te fait plaisir
Il t'aura bien flatté l'égo
Mais s'apprête à te nuire
Hum, hum mais regarde le glousser
Il tâte le terrain, divise pour mieux régner
Dans son habit de prêtre
Il clame le vrai dessein,
Te crontôle par tes peurs
Tu deviendras son chien
Aveuglé par l'or sortant de sa bouche,
Tu bois ses paroles délicieusement à la louche
Ne vois-tu pas loucher ce fou qui t'éclabousse
De son air aguicheur et te conte sa soupe.
superannuated heart
Jesus don't love me, no one ever carried my load... I'm too young to feel this old...
Why
does this world
do this to me Am I cursed? like hobgoblins doomed to creep
in the darkness
Born to be lost and wasted in bewilderment
I have been staring long enough at the abyss
It reflects my own image of solitude and bizarreness
Who am I?
Why should I be labeled if I've just realized one must be true to their self?
All this worldly worries have worn out my heart. I am too young to feel this old.
Dear God, may, merely may, you help me to save me from myself?
it's so nice to be an artist.
indulgence, passion, and harmony. the perfection of the world.
their job is to make this world more beautiful, through their desired approaches.
art makes the concentration. and that concentration and devotion is just beautiful.
Kings Of Leon - On Call (Live at O2 London, England) HQ
She said call me now baby, and I'd come a running.
She said call me now baby, and I'd come a running.
If you'd call me now, baby then I'd come a running.
I'm on call, to be there.
One and all, to be there.
And When I fall, to pieces.
Lord you know, I'll be there waiting.
To be there.
To be there.
I'm on call, to be there.
One and all, to be there.
And When I fall, to pieces.
Lord you know, I'll be there waiting.
I'm gon' brawl, so be there.
Find More lyrics at www.sweetslyrics.com
One for all, I'll be there.
And when they fall, to pieces.
Lord you know, I'll be there laughing.
I'd come a running.
I'd come a running.
I'd come a running.
To be there.
To be there.
I'm on call, to be there.
I'm on call, to be there.
I'm on call, to be there.
I'm on call, to be there.
Kings Of Leon -Cold Desert , with a banter (Live from the O2, Londres, ...
I'm on the corner, waiting for a light to come on,
That's when I know that you're alone
It's cold in the desert, water never sees the ground
Special unspoken without sound
Told me you love me, that I'd never die alone
Hand over you heart, let's go home
Everyone noticed, everyone has seen the signs
I've always been known to cross lines
I've never ever cried when I was feeling down
I've always been scared of the sound
Jesus don't love me, no one ever carried my load
I'm to young to feel this old
Here's to you, here's to me
On to us.
Nobody knows, nobody sees, nobody but me.
Kings Of Leon - Use Somebody (Live at O2 London, England) HQ
I've been roaming around, I was looking down at all I see
painted faces, fill places I can't reach
You know that I could use somebody...
you know that I could use somebody...
Someone like you and all you know and how you speak
countless lovers undercover of the streets
You know that I could use somebody...
you know that I could use somebody...
Someone like you
Off in the night, why'd you live it up, I'm off to sleep
waging wars to shape the poet and the beat
I hope it's going to make you notice...
I hope it's going to make you notice...
Someone like me...
Someone like me...
someone like me... somebody...
(I'm ready now, I'm ready now
I'm ready now, I'm ready now
I'm ready now, I'm ready now
I'm ready now)
Someone like you... somebody
Someone like you... somebody
Someone like you... somebody
I've been running around, I was looking down at all I see...
"the more we would deny that aspect of life, the more it asserts itself"
"A High-Toned Old Christian Woman" by Wallace Stevens
Poetry is the supreme fiction, madame.
Take the moral law and make a nave of it
And from the nave build haunted heaven. Thus,
The conscience is converted into palms,
Like windy citherns hankering for hymns.
We agree in principle. That's clear. But take
The opposing law and make a peristyle,
And from the peristyle project a masque
Beyond the planets. Thus, our bawiness,
Unpurged by epitaph, indulged at last,
Is equally converted into palms,
Squiggling like saxophones. And palm for palm,
Madame, we are where we began. Allow,
Therefore, that in the planetary scene
Your disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed,
Smacking their muzzy bellies in parade,
Proud of such novelties of the sublime,
Such tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk,
May, merely may, madame, whip from themselves
A jovial hullabaloo among the spheres.
This will make widows wince. But fictive things
Wink as they will. Wink most when widows wince.
自在點
累積了足夠的勇氣後就開始做些小改變。積沙成塔，所以這些小元素構成了些滿妙的片段。
其實還滿開心自己可以延畢。多了一年，多了更多選擇和可能性。
這世界是無限大，我也要讓我的心能海納百川。
經歷夠多後，發現到頭來什麼都不重要。其實一切都是基於人與人的關係。
不管外在因素，留到底的還是人心與人性。
生活方式、性格、成就、經驗。如果我們抓到活著的要點，其實一切都不重要。
用意念讓自己的思緒漂浮於上，便會發現視野也廣闊好多。其實一切都不重要，而本來看似重要的身外之物卻宛如洪流，刷過身畔。
一切都不重要，而自己的思緒卻如此清澄透明。
原來始終跟自己過不去的是人心。
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"Nature is but an image or imitation of wisdom, the last thing of the soul."
-- Plotinus
