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lyrics. again.

the ones in italics belong to emery. i did not write them

the rest is mine, inspired by adoration.

Let’s start with just the basics then, even if it seems childish. There’s nothing in your world or mine that could make me sway. Increase the attention, downsize the sensation, and keep away from the frustration and all will be well.
I’m sure that we could fake it when they tell us we’re right. At least the days are getting longer. It’s time to say how much it meant, and how much time we clocked. And we walk out so innocent, marking our way out, shouting down the stairs to let them know.
You can be so persuasive, when you say it’s more than a day trip. You always use that tilted, innocent face and convince me. It’s not hard to believe you, so I do every time. But my teeth chatter and give me away, betraying my closed sentiments. I’m condescending when I ask, “Will this be ending?” You’re so convincing, with the hurt in your eyes and your head hung in shame. I’m constantly amazed at how quickly lust can pretend that it’s love.
We’re just the boys and girls that think they always know. Hindsight is 20/20, but we still feel like the kings and queens of truth and right. With answers for the world, it’s on our shoulders, but the weight isn’t heavy, it’s just breaking us down. When we start to fall apart, the ambiguity shows, but at least we have taste. We’re just the boys and girls that dance with all their clothes. We’re the silent majority, investing our minds. Hiding under the sheets, believing nobody knows about the angels in the closet, shutting the door on the monsters and demons.
All the suspense that we’ve created is boiling the blood in our veins, keeping us alive. Now it’s wasted and we can’t change it, but at least all is still right with the world. At least we can still pretend that the world is coming to an end someday soon. The beginning to the ending, I find myself remembering that verse from that book. The truth and the novelty kept me transfixed to the page, and the words still burn in my eyes. But unlike you, I’ve got something to smile about.
Again, I marvel at how quickly lust can pretend it’s love, designing words to help us believe, but keeping us on the line to the sounds of the elevator music. It’s so much more than just tonight, you have to understand where I’m coming from. We have got to get this right, and I’m not about to let you fall again. Walk with me, dance with me, I’ll help you hold on. You can dance on my toes, it won’t hurt me to watch you smile. How quickly words can become our hands, grasping for redemption, coming up solid. You want it more everyday. We give ourselves up, resigning everything we believe to the thought of warmth. You want it more.
You could be the one to stay, never leave me and never sway. Made from earth for just this day, you found me, though I still don’t know how. But something tells me it’s not right… that we weren’t made to be here. Some sense tells me that we could lose it all tonight, and that you’ll hurt me either way. I’m no better on my own, and I want you here. So I defy all the ones down here and the ones up there. We could feel alive tonight.
I leave the message on your phone, making up for the week of silence that left me weak in the knees. I’m always trying what I can to be a child, but you make it difficult because I want to protect you. The ambiguity shows.
My hands run across your clothes, picking up the scent you leave behind. I’ll never lose this trail. And me with all the plans, I try to be the desire you crave. I know it’s not working, but that’s ok. I’ve found my way, and I have a lamp to guide me. You turn me into something I’ll be. It’s hard to keep us boys and girls, when all we have to show for is another woman and man.


so again, the whole writing around lyrics thing…


the stuff in italics belongs to aesop rock. i own none of that

everything else is mine. please, enjoy.




Once upon a time in the days of yore, the ways were simpler and the laughs were fierce. When the people lived fresh out of legend and folk lore, it wasn’t hard to imagine the adventures craved, or the madness feared. But simpler though it was, the truth followed through. It’s not as though we made these stories up on our own.
There was an old pirate who followed a vile slang. He was respected and feared, and gave no quarter. Had a bird perched on him, Swashbuckler his name, and the classic Jolly Roger swung high over head.
Peg-leg navigated starboard to port, a man at the nest and hundreds down below. By the nautical sign of night, the harbor is yours. As far as I know, for that’s what we’re told. That is, unless he locked in altercation with Davey Jones. In that case, the harbor is his, and your soul as well, so kiss your mast goodbye.
Ten summers prior on a night like this twas when it happened by my recollection. Ten summers, if it was one.
Crows nest saw something and pointed the boats west to keep them out of the way. And when he focused seen the face of an angel upon the body of a fish. She sang a sweet note and sent him a smile. The most beautiful thing he had ever seen, stared back at him with those sea-foam eyes and perfect shape. “What the heck!” he thought, frazzled as a wet musket. His telescope shattered at the fierceness of his grip, so he gathered himself, and squinted into the stars.
She was ghost, he could see, yet a taste of perfection all the same. He met her unfathomably green eyes with his own brown desire, and made his choice in a green flash. He was down the rope ladder to deck, and circled the vessel 360, swiftly. He searched for his maiden and her smile. Found nothing in the water but salt, piss, and whiskey.
YAR, Heckled by the Swabies at the bar. He’ll be the laughing stock of the Barbary Coast War.” “This dude either got two glass eyes, or he’s wearin’ his patch on the wrong Side.”
Now he knew what he saw, had to prove he was raw. He refused to be lived down by the lesser men. So he raped and he pillaged and he’d feud any brawl, just as he would have before. Tried to rekindle his rep using sabers and gun smoke. It wouldn’t have been hard, but the memory of that night made her smile the reason he kept this up. He started to lose touch, started to find it hard to move his way through the tides this time. And disease like the scurvy made his yellow gums bleed. He was achy from his boots to the feather in his hat. His pistol never left his hand, for it took only the mist of the sea to set him jumping. He started to wonder if she’d left him for good, or if he should pack it in and become a land shark. But the thought of leaving the sea settled wrong on his tongue, and even his sea legs wobbled at the thought that she’d left him. The crew began to think they’d just have to give him back to his mistress, ‘till his quartermaster showed up with a stolen treasure map.
One look down and he leaped off the dock, thinking his eyes must have betrayed him again. The crew stared in every direction, searching for a sure face. According to the map the capital was buried in a cursed cave only one mile away from where he had seen the mermaid.
The sharpness of memory kept him wanting after her, and the crew was too taken aback by the shadow of gold to think too much of his reasons. So anchors up, push the Jolly Roger, thank you much. The journey was long, and against the wind. Drums and groans and creaks of paddles were the constant refrain of the trip. Time was crawling and he meant to kick it faster, so day and night with his hook hands raised and clutched, he orchestrated the roar of the sea into his own cadences of “faster” and “put your backs into it”. But see, the vitamin deficiency was strong, that by the time they broke into the island they could barely lift his brawn. He and the crew crawled off the boat, collapsed in the sand, and gave in to the tide. Nothing left to do; no treasure and no lady. Prayers in the air, seashells in his hands, and light in his eyes. When he woke to find the sand beneath him gone and his crew so quiet and still, nary was there a high time so grand as the one that put the lady of the lake on dry land. He found her eyes, her smile, her shape just the way his eyes had betrayed to him. So he got his way, in the end, and never lost another.
And I wish I could tell you that it ended happy, and that the tale is far more far-fetched than the truth. Pretend like his bones weren’t practically snapping, and his eyes never closed for the sand in the way. Pretend like her gills didn’t dry up in suffering, and her green eyes washed out with salt. But either way you think or see, there’s a half dead pirate and a fish out of water.
So that’s my story and I tell you it’s truth. No lie, scouts honor, got a million more. I’ve been dying to tell them, and they’re dying to make them. From the burgundy lighting up from the shores of whores, and the captains dying of rot and love, if you’ve got visions of grandeur, better slow those sails. Whores don’t tell good stories but at least they tell you true. Just remember that the stories you hear may be the history of the hanged. Remember, dead men tell no tales. I translate them from the roars of the sea.
Dead men tell no tales, just push the daisies ‘till the soil is stale.



so i take lyrics from songs and write around them. it’s a guilty pleasure that keeps me sane.

so without further gilding the lily, i present samson, by regina spektor, with a few of my own touches.

the words here that are hers are in italics and i take no credit for them, they’re the work of regina’s musical genius.


You are my sweetest downfall. Frightening and yet… unassuming. You are the fear of letting myself fall from your grace again incarnate. Unfortunately for me, of course, the pace of my heartbeat is the same for fear as it is for contentment in your presence. My own muddled mind can’t tell the difference. I loved you first. Before I was ever afraid of you, before I trusted you, before I had given up any chance at time with you. But I’m tired of not trying. I loved you first. But I let you go… daily.
Beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth. I know that words aren’t exactly your thing, but they’re my solace and my explanation. I have to go, and therefore I have to leave something with you or I might just explode. I hate to leave you and I hate to know you don’t mind. I have to go.
Your hair was long when we first met.

Samson went back to bed, not much hair left on his head and slept soundly not knowing his own betrayal. He didn’t understand… neither of them knew what she had done. He couldn’t see through her perfect, stunningly warm eyes. When everything in her presence and consciousness told him he could have better, he merely ate a slice of wonder bread and went right back to bed. She didn’t mean to hurt him and she didn’t want him to leave. She had no choice. No painful but saving choice. And don’t you see that this is exactly us. And history books forgot about us and the bible didn’t mention us, so we’ve been left to our own devices. I’m terrified leaving you. I am so sure that I am not enough fuel for your warm glow. And the bible didn’t mention us… not even once.

You are my sweetest downfall. It is so incredibly simple to love you; like falling into bed or bursting into tears. I loved you first, and I loved you last. I kept you always. Yes I’ve been gone, but I haven’t loved anything in my absence but the thought of your existence and the chance at our life. I loved you first. Before you thought of me in passing, before you troubled yourself with thoughts of betrayal, and long before you looked elsewhere. Beneath the stars, you sat and gazed, looking for one you could catch. You browsed among the lilies and found one or two without fault enough to be forgotten. And I told you to. I wanted you to. And I did the same. The stars came falling on our heads and burned us alive. But they’re just old light. They can’t hurt you. They’re just old light.
Your hair was long when we first met…

Samson came to my bed, I remember it so vividly. I woke to find you had disappeared and my own personal Samson was there to replace. But he wasn’t enough. He told me that my hair was red, beautiful and dangerous. I was too fiery to be touched. You… you once told me I was beautiful and came into my bed. I allowed it without thought. It seemed so usual, so rightful. Natural. But it’s also just memory. Oh, I cut his hair myself one night. It was my only way to keep him at arms length. A pair of dull scissors in the yellow light, and a frigid embrace. And he told me that I’d done alright. I think I laughed at his insistence. I don’t really remember. All I could remember was those nights… alone we sat and separated by miles and days and frustration, you loved me. You loved me and kissed me ‘til the morning light.

Samson went back to bed, not much hair left on his head. He gave up on me. I left him scarred and angry and burning. But I didn’t think much of it really. He’ll be fine. He’ll eat a slice of wonderbread and go right back to bed. He didn’t need me and I only needed his distraction. His attention kept me slightly numb. Do you still feel the ache? Does it still affect you I wonder…?
Oh, we couldn’t bring the columns down. I’m sorry. I tried. We couldn’t destroy a single one, but we will. We’ll break them down and build new ones, keeping out the demons and the tigers. And history books forgot about us, but I’ll write us new ones. And you don’t even care for words. And the bible didn’t mention us, not even once, but we’ll be atheist. What does it matter?

You are my sweetest downfall. We’ll be leopards. We’ll surrender to each other only. I love you more than you know.
I loved you first.




i wrote this in a moment of frustrated heartbreak. in the spring.

music and happiness are directly linked, but so are melody and sadness.




so since i’m starting something here, i figured i’d start where the site made me start. a name. a title. CXVI. it’s even on my body, permanently. probably means something.

roman numeral’s for 116. and if you don’t like shakespeare or elizabethan language, the next part of this will probably mean very little to you.

Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose Worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom:
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.   ~ William Shakespeare

while i was getting my tattoo done, langdon sat and watched, biting his finger, silent as a prayer. langdon is never silent. EVER. the one time i need him to talk to me he’s playing johnny bench. typical.

but i love this tattoo. i love this sonnet. I love love. I love my boyfriend and my friends. I love house and I watch glee as a guilty pleasure and tried desperately hard to hate it. i name inanimate objects i hold dear and talk to both my fish (mercutio) and my car(tungsten) like they talk back. my car has a spirit, as does my fish. most importantly, so do i. i forget that sometimes.

so, honestly i feel a little ridiculous blogging. I read blogs and i don’t think other people are weird for doing it, but i feel strange with this. I don’t really know why. but basically i’m just using this as an excuse to freewrite on whatever i want whenever i want and, rather than my journaling, and this way people will read it.

again, i feel weird

but here goes. it’s an experiment i’m doing purely for myself. So to whoever happens to read this there are a few things you should know

1, this will not make sense at all to anyone but me.

2, i apologize profusely for number one.              and three.

3, i’ll probably add lots of random quotes, pictures, videos, and whatever feels good to me at the time. you will probably not care at all about what i’m saying or what i’m talking about. sorry. again.