"The street of lost footsteps and the endless postponment of closure.."

"The concept of genuine perception does not refer to one's insight regarding a single category in isolation, but rather, our true perceptional abilities are only illustrated when we are able to brush the delicates shades gleaned from that insight on to each and every thread interwoven into the colossal canvas of everyday life.
Each new shade enriches and ages our frame and gradually the colours will blend together to reveal the rare hue of empathy."

"A Mingled Yarn"

She spins tales of gold, they say. She spins them around her shapely form until, like a mingled yarn she emerges, dazzling and secure, delicately clad in her cocoon of comfort.

Her fingers weave in and out of the threads as her head gently tilts to one side. A smile plays upon the corners of her lips and she draws the young man closer to her, somewhere across the ocean the bright glass eyes flicker shut. Somewhere in a darkened room a candle burns and the scent of jasmine floats in gentle curls over the glowing embers.

They say she descended from an angel. They say that those that look upon her cannot gaze for too long..they say her innocence makes them fearful and their fear makes them run. It is she who makes them run.

With naked footsteps pressed into the lush ground she wanders out towards the water.

The heart of the city pulsed and blazed. Lights, music, the streets of life. Never a dull moment. The cosy cafe on the corner of the street was dimly lit from the inside, the smell of roasted coffee wafted out on to the open road.

It resembled a mansion...one of those old mansions that was set out in the French colonial fashion, but there were so many rooms, and there were the tunnels too...And the lofts and the balcony's, the cracks and the loose floorboards, a single chair in a red room, an old chimney.

"Its complicated Officer", he said dismissively as he chewed noisily on a particularly tough piece of meat that kept painfully reappearing inbetween the rather crooked rows of his tar-stained teeth.

"There was a girl who lived in these parts some time ago, but I guess now only the roses would know."

"The roses?" The young officer frowned at him and handed him a serviette to assist him with the remains of his masticated meal that clung in clumps to the wiry hairs of his unkempt beard.

"They grow outside the white house on the fields and they seem to be changing colour" he replied.

"Trainspotting"

Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourself.

Choose your future.

Choose life.

-John Hodge

"Was is a vision or a waking dream, fled is that music...do I wake, or sleep?" (Keats)

"King Sleep was father of a thousand sons -indeed a tribe - and of them all, the one
he chose was Morpheus, who had such skill
in miming any human form at will.
No other Dream can match his artistry
in counterfeiting men: their voice, their gait,their face - their moods; and, too, he imitates their dress precisely and the words they use most frequently. But he mimes only men..."

We are constantly tossed about like ragged puppets hanging from ropes that swing and constrict...all in a moment, a fleeting lapse.

Oftentimes the smartly dressed gentleman wondered about his futile existence and tried in vain to demarcate the boundaries between the repugnant reality of life and the sickening mimicries that haunted the passage of his dreams. The vulture's pale yellow eyes mirrored his deceit, and watched as he writhed between the two worlds that swirled around him.

To one thing constant never.

And like a boat that slowly slid down the ghostly wards of Lethe he slides towards his fate. The brotherhood of sleep and dreams curl into the mystical vacumn, the ground whispers into his ear about the time of the Parcae.

"Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air...not so happy, yet much happier...Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none."

The defining element lies in success. The trailer before the tragedy flickers in shades of grey across the dusty screen. To one thing constant never.

(Dervied from Ovid - Metamorphoses)

"The wildcard of existence" (Cervantes)

'Tis said of love that it sometimes goes, sometimes flies; runs with one, walks gravely with another; turns a third into ice, and sets a fourth in a flame: it wounds one, another it kills: like lightning it begins and ends in the same moment: it makes that fort yield at night which it besieged but in the morning; for there is no force able to resist it.

"As in a wintry tree"

The Universe is bewitching and uncannily idiosyncratic.

"Once, in finesse of fiddles found I ecstasy, In a flash of gold heels on the hard pavement."

As a cluster of mere paupers trapped against the canvas, we stumble and watch the travelling circus with trembling hearts, and trembling hands.

Is it pure folly, - I whisper to the dusty ground below me- , to lift up my eyes and try to tear down that old star-eaten blanket of the sky, so that I may fold it round me...and then..in comfort lie?

Is our unexplained endurance expected? Or simply unrewarded. How much does one endure, adopt and adapt in order to simply...remain much the same?

Wonder outwaiting pain...as in a Wintry tree.

Cannonball - Damien Rice

"There’s still a little bit of your taste in my mouth
there’s still a little bit of you laced with my doubt
it’s still a little hard to say what's going on

there’s still a little bit of your ghost your witness
there’s still a little bit of your face i haven't kissed
you step a little closer each day
that I can´t say what´s going on

stones taught me to fly
love, it taught me to lie
life, it taught me to die
so it's not hard to fall
when you float like a cannonball

there’s still a little bit of your song in my ear
there’s still a little bit of your words i long to hear
you step a little closer to me
so close that I can´t see what´s going on

stones taught me to fly
love taught me to lie
life taught me to die
so its not hard to fall
when you float like a cannon..

stones taught me to fly
love taught me to cry
so come on courage, teach me to be shy
'cos its not hard to fall,

and I don't want to scare her
its not hard to fall
and i don't want to lose
its not hard to grow
when you know that you just don't know."