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Nobody over here [in England] says 'six-thirty' or 'seven-thirty', they say 'hoppussix' and 'hoppusseven'. And 'in' at home is 'trendy' here and 'give it up' is 'pack it in' and 'never mind!' is 'not to worry!' ... and as Shaw once observed, we are two countries divided by a common language. I am now going to bed because it's quataposstwelve. ↗
#home
I want to burn with excitement or anger and bleed, bleed out my words. I want to get all fucked up and write raw and ugly about all these things I see and am and could be. ↗
#artists #excitement #on-the-road #prose #raw
Stacy smiled proudly and he filed the image of her sweet face in the section of his heart he shared with no one else ~ Brian, Song of the Snowman "Mom said if you put ears on your snowman, he’ll hear the music of the angels and sing songs to you.” ~ Stacy, Song of the Snowman The sweet promise of her embrace cured the loneliness in him. In her arms, he was whole. ~ Brian, Song of the Snowman He composed music, dreamed of the future, and kept the situations he couldn’t change at bay to the rhythm of his feet drumming on the concrete. Brian, Song of the Snowman This was as simple as his life got rhythm, rhyme, and fingertips on cool keys. ~ Brian, Song of the Snowman ↗
The best way to maximize your time is by not wasting time. This requires planning and having an awareness of how you spend your time throughout the day. ↗
The first thing I saw was blue. Blue sweater, blue eyes. Blue. Beautifully blue. Then I saw red as I recognized who belonged to the blue. “Fucking Wallbanger,” I hissed, frozen on the spot. His grin slid off as well as he played place-the-face for a moment. “Fucking Pink Nightie Girl,” he finally concluded. He grimaced. We stared, seething as the air literally turned electric between us, snapping and crackling. The four behind us had fallen silent, listening to this little interchange. Then they caught up. “That’s Wallbanger?” Sophia screeched. “Wait a minute, that’s Pink Nightie Girl?” Neil laughed, and Mimi and Ryan snorted. My face flamed bright red as I processed this information, and Simon’s sneer became that damnable smirk I’d seen that night in the hallway—when I’d banged on his door and made him quit giving it to the Giggler and yelled at him. When I’d been wearing… “Pink Nightie Girl. Pink Nightie Girl!” I choked out, beyond pissed. Beyond angry. Well into Furious Town. I stared at him, pouring all of my tension into that one look. All of the sleepless nights and lost Os and cold showers and banana thrusting and merciless wet dreams went into that one look. I wanted to level him with my eyes, make him beg for mercy. But no…Not Simon, Director of the International House Of Orgasms. He Was Still Smirking. ↗
Do you have a lot of other profound thoughts like that? Blood is blood? A toaster is a toaster? A Gelatinous Cube is a Gelatinous Cube? ↗
How do you wake up? It was one thing to know that you had been asleep all your life, but something else to wake up from it, to find out you were really alive and it wasn't anybody's fault but your own. Of course that was the problem. All right. Everything is a dream. Nothing hangs together. You move from one dream to another and there is no reason for the change. Your eyes see things and your ears hear, but nothing has any reason behind it. It would be easier to believe in God. Then you could wake up and yawn and stretch and grin at a world that was put together on a plan of mercy and death, punishment for evil, joy for good, and if the game was crazy at least it had rules. But that didn't make sense. It had never made any sense. The trouble was, now that he was not asleep and not awake, what he saw and heard didn't make sense either. Mishmash, he thought. You know enough to know how you feel is senseless, but you don't know enough to know why. ↗
Dreaming is what you do when your eyes are closed...living is what you do with that dream once you open your eyes! ↗
