Them: Shake What Your Mama Gave You!

Where are the rushed diary entries, as you run with friends to a playground. Where is the harsh, impulsive attitude. When did it all become so soft? This is not at any fault of light, but at the fault of us for not properly documenting the dark. Early morning is not complete without the stinging cold air, tea is not without it's bitterness. When did we start writing only the delicate? You cannot comprehend love without the suddenness of it all, no matter how slow you can try to take it there is the unmistakable surprises love must give someone. Without the impulsivity, the dark, the sudden, everything becomes diluted. And much less true.

I had a nightmare a few weeks ago about some murders, and usually that freaks me out for a while and I can't sleep. So naturally I turned him into a character and made him kiss other boys. It's to the point I was making pintrest boards for him and his boyfriend, but it's late, and now murder is scary again and I can't sleep.

The morning light perfectly illuminated only one of my drums.

I always knew I needed to keep a clear mind. It was helpful in every sense, but I found it so difficult to achieve, especially when I was conscious of my state of mind. I held my head in my hands, bent over with my elbows digging into my knees. The green park bench didn't help anything either, it was rough, uneven and uncomfortable. The air around me was cold but not harsh on my skin, and gentle winds tousled my hair and swept it to a side. The kindly breeze kept me company, I think it was the only things stopping me from crying.  I inhaled slowly, pushing my hair back with a hand. I closed my eyes and leaned back on the old bench, one of the planks dug into my back but I didn't mind. My head tilted towards the sky, I steadied myself. Slowly, like the forest waking from winter, I opened my eyes. The sky was a light gray, it wasnt unusual to see this sort of cloud cover, even early in spring. Unfortunately, the world told me it wasn't going to rain. I stay stilled for several moments, taking in everything. The smell of late winter, the taste of coffee still resting on my tongue, the sound of the winter rustling the bare limbs of trees. As I breathed, becoming one with my atmosphere, a small speck of white came into vision against the only slightly darker sky. It gently danced through the air and was quickly joined by friends like it. The snowflakes laughed like children and ran around, hopping, skipping and jumping as they descended down through the air, become calmly landing on my face and glasses. I smiled despite myself and previous mood, isn't it funny how quickly things can change? How quickly the walzt of snow fall turned into a slumber and blankets the world in white.

Good weather always brings out the best in my writing

A handfull of weeks ago I bought this really old book from a vintage store. And I don't just mean from 50 years ago or something, I mean from like 100 years ago. It's in German or something, and I can't read it. But it was so interesting I just had to bring it home. The number in the cover says 1860 and I know the book itself was around since 1881 from the first of many signatures and dates on the inside.

Im a bit cautious about touching it since it's badly damaged but here are some photos. Anyone know what language/book this is? What's it about? So curious

I could say some aesthetically academic but then again I just spend a few minutes arranging scarbble letters in the vintage store to say "be gay do crime" and told the lady that there were no Ms left, then I stuck a foot long sub in my coat pocket whilst singing union songs so I think I lost that privilege

"Tu te demandes si tu es une bête féroce ou bien un saint Mais tu es l'un, et l'autre, et tellement de choses encore Tu es infiniment nombreux Celui qui méprise, celui qui blesse, celui qui aime, celui qui cherche Et tous les autres ensembles Trompe-toi, sois imprudent, tout n'est pas fragile N'attends rien que de toi, parce que tu es sacré Parce que tu es en vie Parce que le plus important n'est pas ce que tu es, mais ce que tu as choisi d'être"

Excerpt from "BLIZZARD" by Fauve

The ticket is always blank

I feel as though life has been passing me by

It feels like I'm at a train station

Watching the trains pass

Wonder which one was mine

It's hearing a busker's guitar, calm peaceful

We stand their in our own melancholic solitude

Not daring to look up

Buried in our own self doubt

It's watching clouds roll over blue skies

It's watching the seconds tick

Waiting for the clock to fall

And my body to decay

It was laying in the grass

Trying to become a bug

It was standing in the rain

To become a puddle

I think of these things

These thoughts of death that plague my brain

I watch another train go by

The next one, I think,

I'll get on

My goal in life is to have one post blow up and when people look at my profile to see more of this mastery, they are throughly disappointed.

Guys I have a problem.

A very big terrible issue!

I cannot, for the life of me, remember what the name of something is.

That something just so happens to be a theatre script that I once read and would greatly like to again. It's also damn hilarious. The title has (I think) something about Babylon. The plot is about two men who are building the tower of Babylon. And it's just saying the same thing over and over again. I only ever got like 1/4-1/3 through it so Im missing a bit of info. There might also be a priest.