I had forgotten how much I loved fantasy until I picked up The City Of Dreaming Books (Walter Moers) and was completely lost in it. I’d been reading so many classics and works dealing with the inner works of the human mind through regular life that I forgot how powerful absolute fiction was. Garth Nix, Clive Barker, now Walter Moers, what next? What do I read to fill in the space between now and when we order Moers other two books? Literary gems like that are so abysmally rare!
I never thought I would have to be jealous over you It’s not an insulting underestimation, it’s a judgement of your character But lo and behold, a free radical And the flood-gates are opened jealousy, anger, rage, frustration, worry! Oh the worry! I, yes I will name myself the higher morality, I worry for you! Once I took you for granted, and once I lost you Too late was I to see the error of my ways, too late was I to understand my loss! See if I let it be in my power that I lose you again! Not that I have you now, but it seems I, and I alone, fully appreciate you And now this free-radical? What are you in its eyes? A joke? A moment’s entertainment, sure, but nothing real And, for that matter, what is it to you? A replacement? Even if so, what good would that do you? The new one would start to lose faith as the old one has begun to If this free-radical should even begin to actually care I would cry for the grievances I don’t want to be done to you! Even as I shake with the angry rage of jealousy, I want to be the one. I lost you once, and as I fight to get you back I don’t want to lose you again. Not now, Not to this free-radical.
our cowardice collides it’s a silent battle rank with apathetic desperation scarcely at a loss for denial don’t stick around folks! our drama knows no days or hours no months, it seems those too have been a miscalculated luxury nor even battles! it seems the age for action has come to a close dear reader, tune in next year and I’ll count the minutes sack sack of a rebuttal, this truly is but an argument built out of forgiveness? prove me wrong. I dare you. belatedly I realized that history repeats itself. indiscriminately, ha. shall I compare you to him? ah, but it seems I already have perhaps, but that bridge was burned. inevitably I will be wrong when I think I know you and I am sure it is meaningless to say you were always forgiven perhaps you are the only one who will read this correctly it’s not pompous of me to assume you’ll read this, is it?
1. Sneezes - I usually sneeze in sets of six. Three on bad days, way too many on sick days. I aim for seven, even though six is my favorite number. Sometimes I have a straggler. I’m not sick, it’s really just how I sneeze. (Side note, if you ever hear my sneeze, for the love of god wait until I’m done to say bless-you, or at least limit yourself to saying it once per sneeze; no need to grossly overcompensate, I get it enough as it is).
2. Hiccups - They are really loud. Even with my mouth closed it’s really loud. It’s the sort of echo-in-the-hall-loud loud. I can’t help it, I try, I really do. I just have to wait it out and hope people aren’t offended and understand how involuntary it is.
3. Hiccup-like Things - They’re sort of like lone-ranger hiccups. Or burp-things that sound like hiccups. If it’s just one and I go on like nothing’s wrong, chances are it’s not hiccups, because I make a big deal out of those. So you don’t need to always ask. Please.
If anyone else would like to explain their involuntary actions people get annoying about, please feel free to respond. It’s always interesting to know how people would like other’s to react.
Sometimes the sun shines just right and on those winter days you just can’t help but think summer. Little pieces of progress so when the day is done, you’re left with a sweet aftertaste brimming with excitement for the next. There is a light in my life.
Like you, sometimes I’m pushed to surreality, a touch of hysteria The madness, like the morning, comes and like the afternoon, goes It smolders in the night like all you can’t see that’s there And in the morning light it explodes in raptures Wishing, like the sun, burns And silently we’re gone
Ungrateful Swine, what have you of the written word?
I am always stuck wanting things I do not have, feelings, situations. But to what point and purpose? Should I have it its magic would be lost, I would be desensitized to its glory. I have not yet learned to want what I have and see the desirable feeling that it possesses. Satisfaction, I think, is the word. Perhaps therein lies the glory of writing: it seems not to be a possession first, to the writer it is first a creation. But then if the purpose of writing is to capture thoughts and restore their glory to paper, perhaps the act of writing is ultimately selfish. But then the best of it is absolutely permeated with just the writers intent to write and do the writing justice.
this is a dedication to hypocrisy living with false fronts morals of no acceptance life? can not there be an admittance of paradox? the worth of integrity, the true possession the only hope is honesty needs no outlet save for that within say you’re lying
“Or perhaps it is rather that Nature, in her most irrational mood, has traced in invisible ink on the walls of the mind a premonition which these great artists confirm; a sketch which only needs to be held to the fire of genius to become visible.”—Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s One