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SubscriptionsSites I Read
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| If you were riding in a coach
And I were wearing a peasant's coat,
And one day we met in the road,
You would get down and bow.
If you were carrying a peddler's umbrella,
And I were riding on a horse,
And one day we met in the road
I would get down for you.
I want to be your friend
Forever and ever without break or decay.
When the hills are all flat
And the rivers are all dry,
When it lightens and thunders in winter,
When it rains and snows in summer,
When Heaven and Earth mingle---
Not until then will I part from you." | | |
| i am surrounded by all sorts of dramz,
all of which is not mine.
i hates it a little bit.
and wish i could close my ears to the world.
because i like how simple my life is.
and hearing about other people's troubles is not fun at all.
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| I do not remember the point in time when I degenerated into the being that I am today. I exist, and I do not much else. I live day to day, morning to night, and the sheer act of BEING has become a labor that I do not want to sustain. Like a working girl, except without the stories to tell. It absolutely amazes me how little there is that differentiates one day from the next, how very flat my weeks have gone by.
Nights ago I heard the kiddos outside join together for a Wednesday night of drinking and singing of Journey songs into the wee hours of the night. The greatest pleasures come from those acts that seem insignificant in the scheme of life events. I am feeling a great lack of such things.
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As a disclaimer, this is not an emotional outpour of my deepest darkest depressions. It is more of a purification of pent-up thought. It is observation, and a solidification of how very tired I am.
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On another note, I have never done this many dishes in my life. There is a disadvantage that comes with only owning two bowls, three forks, and a shitload of Ikea glass cups. 12 for 5 dollars, baby.
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let's go here. | | |
| "So I stayed another day. It was Sunday. A great heat wave descended; it was a beautiful day, the sun turned red at three. I started up the mountain and got to the top at four. All those lovely California cottonwoods and eucalypti brooded on all sides. Near the peak there was no more trees, just rocks and grass. Cattle were grazing on the top of the coast. There was the Pacific, a few more foothills away, blue and vast and with a great wall of white advancing from the legendary potato patch where Frisco fogs are born. Another hour it would come straming through the GOlden Gate to shroud the romantic city in white, and a young man would hold his girl by the hand and climb slowly up a long white sidewalk with a bottle of Tokay in his pocket. That was Frisco; and beautiful women standing in white doorways, waiting for their men, and Coit Tower, and the Embarcadero, and Market Street, and the eleven teeming hills." | | |
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