underoath
senses fail
my chemical romance
sum 41
blink 182
dashboard confessional
circa survive
dead poetic
thursday
silverstein
the academy is
the used
sublime
all-american rejects
taking back sunday
brand new
modest mouse
motion city soundtrack
write this down
family guy southpark house the deadzone futurama monk
Each thing I do I rush through so I can do something else. In such a way do the days pass-- a blend of stock car racing and the never ending building of a gothic cathedral. Through the windows of my speeding car, I see all that I love falling away: books unread, jokes untold, landscapes unvisited. And why? What treasure do I expect in my future? Rather it is the confusion of childhood loping behind me, the chaos in the mind, the failure chipping away at each success. Glancing over my shoulder I see its shape and so move forward, as someone in the woods at night might hear the sound of approaching feet and stop to listen; then, instead of silence he hears some creature trying to be silent. What else can he do but run? Rushing blindly down the path, stumbling, struck in the face by sticks; the other ever closer, yet not really hurrying or out of breath, teasing its kill.