And you start thinking again 'bout all those things that you've done; and who it was and what it was and all the different things you made every different scene

"Well, I must endure the presence of a few caterpillars if I wish to become acquainted with the butterflies.”

We walked it for a thousand years, with broken eyes and salted ears
Complaining 'bout the weather like we ever had a choice.
Through all the noise and self abuse, you waited for your fill of truth

Oh I'm terrified I'll achieve nothing at all.

drifters off to see the world, there's such a lot of world to see

Five miles behind the line.

Watch out, the world's behind you

From a late night train the little towns go rolling by and the people at the station going home.  

and I don't even know your name.

Admonitions To A Special Person
by Anne Sexton

Watch out for power,
for its avalanche can bury you,
snow, snow, snow, smothering your mountain.

Watch out for hate,
it can open its mouth and you'll fling yourself out
to eat off your leg, an instant leper.

Watch out for friends,
because when you betray them,
as you will,
they will bury their heads in the toilet
and flush themselves away.

Watch out for intellect,
because it knows so much it knows nothing
and leaves you hanging upside down,
mouthing knowledge as your heart
falls out of your mouth.

Watch out for games, the actor's part,
the speech planned, known, given,
for they will give you away
and you will stand like a naked little boy,
pissing on your own child-bed.

Watch out for love
(unless it is true,
and every part of you says yes including the toes) ,
it will wrap you up like a mummy,
and your scream won't be heard
and none of your running will end.

Love? Be it man. Be it woman.
It must be a wave you want to glide in on,
give your body to it, give your laugh to it,
give, when the gravelly sand takes you,
your tears to the land. To love another is something
like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall
into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.

Special person,
if I were you I'd pay no attention
to admonitions from me,
made somewhat out of your words
and somewhat out of mine.
A collaboration.
I do not believe a word I have said,
except some, except I think of you like a young tree
with pasted-on leaves and know you'll root
and the real green thing will come.

Let go. Let go.
Oh special person,
possible leaves,
this typewriter likes you on the way to them,
but wants to break crystal glasses
in celebration,
for you,
when the dark crust is thrown off
and you float all around
like a happened balloon.

“But what I do I do because I like to do.”

“The important thing is moral choice. Evil has to exist along with good, in order that moral choice may operate. Life is sustained by the grinding opposition of moral entities.”


- Anthony Burgess, A Clockwork Orange

loud words never bothered me like they do to you.

My temper got the best of me

And when I said that I mean

I know that every single word that I said was true

"...comme vous pouvez le voir, je ne souris, ni ris, ni vis," et c'est tout ce qu'elle a dit.

I'm here, and it's tomorrow.

I don't think I'll even realise it until I see you.

 how much has actually changed; and somehow,

before you went away. Because it's difficult to believe

for me to get things back to anything close to what they were

And I am, in a way, but I'm anxious as well. I just don't know if it's enough time,

So you are back in fifty five days; and I should be so happy, ecstatic, over the moon.

There's no word for yesterday in Eskimo language.

'...and I'm scared of what's behind, and what's before.'

I know a year is always longer than it seems. I just wasn't aware that so much could happen in that amount of time. And I wish I could say that in spite of it all, I'm still the same as I was; that I'm still as hopeful and sure about what I want. But what's the use in that? It simply wouldn't be true.

A cold wind whispers and stirs a dream into the night.

"Then in the end, it won't matter, that I didn't do all the things I planned. Maybe nothing ever really matters, you only think it does. And all the notches on the belt that you run around gathering - as if the world will count themp up and reward you, declare you human after all - they won't matter either. All that time you could have been lying there under a tree, under a sky, bewildered only by the beauty above you. And still the world would declare the same thing: you are alive. Yes, you are." - Martine Murray, How to make a bird