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The Human StarThe star fell from the sky
Into my very arms;
"Away with you," said I,
"Return to your siblings above."
I threw him up high,
With all of my might
But he came back down
"No," cried he,
"I want to be human!"
I scoffed and scolded,
"You're perfectly absurd!
You drift peacefully above,
happy as a clam;
Do you not know
Of the pain humans feel?
Who would want to be human?"
Like a child, he huffed and replied,
"I want more than to drift!
Do you not know?
The pain of humans,
their sorrow, disappointment-
Is part of their sweet triumph?
Need I any more reason,
Other than just to be human?"
Hereafter he left,
And I wondered if maybe
It was better to be human
Than to be a star
Paper streets and paper goldHe had paper hearts strung around his ankles and paper cranes on the soles of his feets. He had paper people as bandages to wrap around his ribs where a lost entity lived inside. He had paper for skin, paper for lips, and paper for hair. All frayed.
He spent his days in a flimsy house coming apart at the seams, staring at empty sceneries out of shaky windows, scribbling white drawings on white floors on top of each other, singing blank words from a blank box of a voice. He imagined a life with color and foundation, solidity that couldn’t be crumpled, a world with compassion from the corners of a friendly home. He drew pictures of that world he daydreamed of, and sang sad songs of how he would never get there. For such a place did not exist.
He was the boy who lived on Paper Street.
He wished he wasn’t.
Heaven is a LieHeaven is a lie, she knows. It's not pessimism talking, but hard cold facts and reality, the kind almost impossible to refute, like the way a person reasons his proof of existence in the words "I think, therefore I am"(Descartes).
Heaven is a lie, because in heaven you are supposed to be happy, and happiness does not exist. Happiness does not exist, at least for her, because she resides in the dark and that's where she'll always be and there's no such thing that can exist in the dark and everything wilts and turns grey like her soul and- and-
Heaven is a lie. She breathes in the chilly night air, beating down the hurt betrayal in her chest as fog surrounds her as she clutches to herself, everything she has. Heaven would not accept the likes of her. How could it, when she could not accept herself? Even if God exists (does he really? She finds herself doubting), she is dead to him, and by proxy, he is dead to her.
Heaven is a lie; it means nothing to her. Perhaps, once upon a time, it mi
Letters to England- Canada 1Dear England,
Do you have any ideas to help me get noticed more? It's annoys me every time someone mistakes me for America, or when they don't notice me.
Blimey, sorry for keeping you waiting for my reply. I've been trying to figure out who you are. Yes, well, hm...I know the feeling. Way back when I used to be mistaken for one of my three brothers, Scotty, Ire-bastard and Wanker (Wales). So I dyed my then-ginger hair blond, fluffed up my eyebrows so they were bigger than any of theirs, and completely changed my wardrobe inside and out. Never happened again. What I'm saying isdrastically change your image (DRASTICALLY!!) so that it's utterly different from America but still holds some you in it. Wear red and white garb, dye your hair, and use whatever means necessary to force the fact that you are...uh...Canada...yes..
On creating lifelike charactersYou died. But I will
keep writing your story until
you begin to live
a dollar for happinesswhich circumstances
determine the joy
possessed in each
bottle of bubbles
I retrace patterns
in every memory
unable to recapture
I make spheres
out of sorrow
and watch them sink
rolling around like
marbles in the sand
of my mind-
leaving traces of
no one was able to see
little girl in the hallway
with doors locked
come outside -
I've a dollar
and a smile
Donne-moi des nouvelles...(English version below)
Donne-moi des nouvelles,
Fais qu'elles soient légères,
Fais qu'elles m'ensorcellent
Et rendent plus magiques
Ce p'tit bout de terre.
Donne-moi des nouvelles,
Même d'hier, même des guerres,
Fais qu'elles m'interpellent,
Me surprennent, épiques,
Et puis réitère.
Si tu ne me parles plus,
Si tu ne m'apprends rien,
Je vais dépérir,
Ou bien même demain.
Si tu me tais les faits,
Et même les pires méfaits,
Je perdrai la raison,
Peut-être à jamais,
Peut-être pour de bon.
Donne-moi des nouvelles,
Parle-moi tout bas,
Et puis regarde-moi.
Je suis encore celle
Qui te tenais, tout petit,
Serré contre moi.
Version anglaise : Merci beaucoup à Menotmyselfori ([link]) pour sa traduction!!!!
Give me some news,
Make sure they're light,
A Turning Point in the Clockwork WarA war of attrition
depends on supply and drawdown,
how much you have and how much you use up.
With personnel, the balance concerns
the influx of recruitment versus
the outflow of casualties, deserters, invalids.
There is only so much loss
that a fighting force can sustain
and still fight.
Pilot Claude Archer was the first
to challenge his invalid discharge.
"I don't need legs to fly," he said,
patting the healed stumps of his thighs.
"My Osprey runs on elbow grease."
The members of the discharge board
paused and looked at each other.
What he said was true.
The Osprey-class fighter jets
relied on hand controls,
and a sharp eye and iron nerve.
Fingers flicked through the stack
of discharge papers -- so many, many pages.
So many soldiers lost, never to fight again.
They could not afford to let slip even one
who might be retained, somehow,
to face the front line once more.
Far less could the war effort spare
one of its best pilots.
So they put Pilot Archer back on the roster,
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