some of you are still on here. i miss it sometimes but apparently not enough. i seem to go from place to place like an abandoned child looking for a home.
“The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him… a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create — so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating.
"You may not be her first, her last, or her only. She loved before she may love again. But if she loves you now, what else matters?
She’s not perfect -- you aren’t either, and the two of you may never be perfect together but if she can make you laugh, cause you to think twice, and admit to being human and making mistakes, hold onto her and give her the most you can.
She may not be thinking about you every second of the day, but she will give you a part of her that she knows you can break -- her heart.
So don’t hurt her, don’t change her, don’t analyze and don’t expect more than she can give. Smile when she makes you happy, let her know when she makes you mad, and miss her when she’s not there."
BOB MARLEY
so steal the show and do your best to cover the tracks that i have left -- rachael yamagata, reason why
so stay there cause i'll be coming over and while our blood's still young it's so young, it runs and won't stop til it's over won't stop to surrender
a moment, a love a dream, aloud a kiss, a cry our rights, our wrongs (won't stop til it's over)
there are days i miss california so much it hurts. there are days i want to twirl under the sun and perfect blue skies and trace the beautiful music back to my friend and his band on the promenade and race on the beach in cut-off shorts with my hair undone, carefully and tenderly pick pink and purple wildflowers by the rocks, gather at the late-night joint over pho with you all and laugh until we double over in blissful pain, pull out the instruments and sing under the stars, our voices pure and lovely rising above the emptiness like pleas for happiness, spirits traveling from the karaoke parking lot to the secluded park by your house where you showed me your worn records and favorite books. i can't be there right now, but i'm thinking of you all.
so stay there cause i'll be coming over and while our blood's still young it's so young, it runs and won't stop til it's over won't stop to surrender
