|
| Hey you all. Thought I finnaly update after commentling and catching up on everyone elses. Well, as many as I could get to. Not many people read mine but I'm alright with that. Busy busy lives and too many people to talk to. But, Im always here most likely with lots of free time. Just to you all know that. Well, current, as I have told everyone I am in Illinois. Visiting my best best best best sister , adpoted by myself because of obvious reasons. I haven't seen her for months and I get to spend the weekend with her and her family. Im very happy. I will also probably post many many pictures of this trip. Plus I so drove on the highway with her dad on the way here and it was scary at first but then fun. Well, I have droned on enough. Off to go play DDR with my new mat till Sam's and my feet fall off. ^.^
Later loves,
Kate | | |
| You know you write too much when...
-You have three notebooks full of background information on just ONE of your stories.
-You go to bed at night thinking about your characters, thinking, "If they did this, s/he'd do that..."
-Your friends start calling you by the name of your main character.
-You get your characters inside your head and they yell at you for doing something they don't like.
-Your friends frequently tell you to shut up because you can't stop bouncing ideas off of them.
-If a fire hit your house and you could only save one thing, you'd rather roast because you wouldn't know which notebook/floppy/other form of saved material to grab.
-Whenever you use something like Sloganizer and stick in the name of one of your characters, you start hyperventilating when something comes up that sounds JUST LIKE THEM.
-You decide to see if the Personality Cocktail thing on go-quiz.com is always right by putting in all your characters' names...and flip out when it is.
-You make entire websites dedicated to your story.
-Your stories overflow your notebooks and actual PC onto the internet and are littered across multiple fictionpress accounts and multiple Gaia accounts in journals.
-You nearly faint from happiness when you check your email and see someone has emailed you something nice about something of yours they've read.
-If you go a day without your story you swear you're going to die.
-Your best friend is a piece of paper.
-Your second-best friend is an artist who can do drawings of your characters.
-You stay up for hours drawing maps and pictures of the places in your story.
-You make said artist friend make up crests for all of your characters.
-Your favorite class in school is Creative Writing.
-Whenever you get a report homework assignment, the entire class groans because they know you'll write yours better than all of theirs put together (and you've done so in the past).
-You snap at anyone who tries to read your stuff without your permission.
-You actually get these jokes. | | |
| London
by William Blake
I wandered through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
A mark in every face I meet,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of every man,
In every infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear:
How the chimney-sweeper's cry
Every blackening church appals,
And the hapless soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down palace-walls.
But most, through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot's curse
Blasts the new-born infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.
Spoken Words
By Dave Havok
We held hands on the last night on earth.
Our mouths filled with dust, we kissed in the fields and under trees,
screaming like dogs, bleeding dark into leaves.
It was empty on the edge of town but we knew everyone floated along the bottom of the river.
So we walked through the waste where the road curved into the sea and the shattered
seasons lay, and the bitter smell of burning was on you like a disease.
In our cancer of passion you said, "Death is the midnight runner."
The sky had come crashing down like the news of an intimate suicide.
We picked up the shards formed them into shapes of stars that wore like an antique wedding
dress. The echoes of the past broke the hearts of the unborn as the farris wheel
silently slowed to a stop. The few insects skittered away in hopes of a better pastime.
I kissed you at the apex of the maelstrom and asked if you would accompany me
in a quick fall, but you make me realize that my ticket wasn't good for two.
I rode alone.
You said, "The cinders are falling like snow."
There is poetry in despair, and we sang with unrivaled beauty,
bitter elegies of savagery and eloquence. Of blue and grey.
Strange, we ran down desperate streets and carved our names into the flesh of the city.
The sun has stagnated somewhere beyond the rim of the horizon
and the darkness is a mystery of curves and lines.
Still, we lay under the emptiness and drifted slowly outward,
and somewhere in the wilderness we found salvation scratched into the earth
like a message. | | |
| First think of a person who lives in disguise
Who lives in secrets and tells naught but lies
Next tell me what's always the last thing to mend
The middle of middle and the end of the end
And finally give me a sound often heard
During the search of a hard to find word
Now string them together and answer me this
Which creature would you be unwilling to kiss?
In marble walls as white as milk
Lined with skin as smooth as silk
Within a fountain crystal clear
A golden apple doth appear.
No doors there are to this stronghold
Yet thieves break in to steal the gold.
What is this?
Little Alice, dreaming one night,
Dreamt apples floating into sight.
She dreamt of apples, often my dear.
How many apples did appear?
We are all very little creatures,
each of us have different features,
One of us in glass is set,
another you will find in jet,
this other you will find in tin,
or if you don`t see, then look within.
Yet if this one you should pursue, then it can never fly from you.
What are we?
Voiceless it cries,
Wingless it flutters,
Toothless bites,
Mouthless mutters.
What is it?
My life can be measured in hours,
I serve by being devoured,
Thin I am quick,
Fat I am slow,
Wind is my foe.
What am I?
I am a lady.
You almost never see me
My dress is made of silver silk
and black velvet
with diamonds studded in the velvet.
With the month I grow pregnant
with the golden mans son.
Who am I? | | |
| Twice ten are six of us,
six are but three of us.
Nine are but four of us;
What can we possibly be?
Would you know more of us,
twelve are but six of us.
Five are but four, do you see?
Only a riddle today. Not much else to say. ^.^
~Lorelei  | | |
|
