Kill the passive. They are trying to kill our love. Wild boys run and kill them for us. If you don't feel the way I do, then fuck you. I don't want to meet you.
My Own. ......
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WAS, by Geoff Ryman. In Cold Blood by Truman Capote, The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand (Not Atlas Shurgged), Lies My Told My Teacher Told Me by Dr. James Lowen, Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt, The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton, Gone With The Wind by Margert Mitchell. The Wind Done Gone By Alice Randell. The Body, Rita Hayworth and the Shawnshank Redempation, Carrie by Stephan King. Letters from my grandma, emails from Jessica Johnson, anything jw writes how little it may be, the soundbites that slip out of people who don't understand how brillant they are.
"What is a saint? A saint is someone who has achieved a remote human possibility. It is impossible to say what that possibility is. I think it has something to do with the energy of love. Contact with this energy results in the exercise of a kind of balance in the chaos of existence. A saint does not dissolve the chaos; if he did the world would have changed long ago. I do not think that a saint dissolves the chaos even for himself, for there is something arrogant and warlike in the notion of a man setting the universe in order. It is a kind of balance that is his glory. He rides the drifts like an escaped ski. His course is the caress of the hill. His track is a drawing of the snow in a moment of its particular arrangement with wind and rock. Something in him so loves the world that he gives himself to the laws of gravity and chance. Far from flying with the angels, he traces with the fidelity of a seismograph needle the state of the solid bloody landscape. His house is dangerous and finite, but he is at home in the world. He can love the shape of human beings, the fine and twisted shapes of the heart. It is good to have among us such men, such balancing monsters of love." [pg 95. Leonard Cohen; Beautiful Losers (1966)] Artists, the real artist, or the particlaur kind that I am trying to find, are saints. For they love the world so much that they will suffer to make it beauitful. Even if only for five minitues. Or two hours. Only someone who sees the beauty in the world would do this. href="http://photobucket.com/" target="_blank" ..