We came as giants.
Movement…. Purpose… Fear… Inspire…
Images flash. It’s pinball. With-drawal, Wicked fast moving like cyclone to smash that glass.
Off the wall.(A cry you won’t hear at night.)
“I’ve been having all these weird thoughts lately…
Like… is any of this for real, or not?…”
That thing that should not be.
“I sat within the valley green. I sat me with my true love.” His words burned with circling echoes which clung to weak zephyrs that pushed, flew and circulated across the plains.
“My sad heart strove the two between the old love and the new love.” The yellowing grass shifted beneath his black sneakers as a velvet tide.
I tried to tell them that dialogue is very useful because we can communicate very quickly, but we don’t really say important things with the language. When you’re with a small two year old child and he doesn’t speak he smiles, his smile is very moving, more than a smile of another. When you’re with your wife, you don’t say I love you to your wife every day but the ways you look at her and your actions are another way to communicate. Don’t focus on dialogue, only focus on what you’re expressing.
“
| — |
michel hazanavicius
(via e-pic) |
Hand hollowed over the timid flame-
He sighed to empty his lungs and
Embraced the greying smoke with its
Deep black wings fluttering against the calloused shell of his body.
Sleek as a raven, the smoke worked her way
Into his frigid frame. Her charcoal hands melted
The ice of brittle solitude…
Dog days over.
Like bedtime stories come to pass,
Of a love not fleeting from my grasp.
Like far off memory or the scattered dream,
To tear my life right from the seams.
Bucksville Rd.
She flies and she cries when she weeps when I leave.
Cause she’s an angel, pretty angel.
And I lost to her twice and I fought through the coldness of stone and of ice.
What an angel, once my angel.
And she cried when she lied when I died when my thoughts were fried.
And so we fight through the days and the nights.
You were an angel, pretty angel.
An everlasting grace falls around me.
No such words as vast as they ever should be.
How low have I gone to satisfy my own greed.
And what I needs not this angel, pretty angel.
So I walk while you talk while they stalk me through the gardens.
And I know of a man born of sand.
My hatred.
Oh, lost hatred.
And we fly when I cry and you sigh while I pick the Rose’s thorn from my side.
She flies and she cries when she weeps when I leave.
Cause she’s an angel, pretty angel.
