Blogorrhea by Midnight

Reasons to be happy (and kick that black bad cloud)

Its really nice to finally smile
And peel back the monochrome of the metronome
The dark doings and goings on
That gloom cloud that always follows Eor
The color of the sky when man makes the weather
Comotose twirls of grey on beige on pink
Underneath are a hundred million colors
These colors are the colors we mix
They're the colors that we make and we create

The lady's wore red hats, and I smiled, because I knew then and I know now that they are over fifty, and by the time I reach that place, I'll have forgotten the color shirt I wore today, or the color hats they had on, or even the gloom cloud that the janitor of heaven heaves over me like those long push brooms, every once in a while catching up just enough to shove the crumbs of my future under the closest sofa on the terra, just enough to hide away that little gem, that red headed punk, that shiny shit it the sand, that fucking ruby in the sledge, the diamond ring in the sewer.

If and only if I could peel back, and reel back, and spark a blunt and just mix the quick stuff up like a wandering tigerlily too busted from wanderlust to make it up to the top of the bluff, dusted with specks of tiny dirt and ash, herb and hash, just enough to cast off the shadow and kick back into that bad afterschool special, the one with the kid in denial, where he opens his eyes and finally sees the rainbows for their colors, not for their dark and white contrast.
Sparkles.
Smile.

Overcome by sadness, sickness, wilted, scattered, drying and dead.
Try to remove the human drama from everything, but end up stiched, slathered, wretched, wet and lost.

RENASCENTIA DE AFFECTUS

Sometime, someday, it will bloom into an edifice. Somehow.
But for now, bang your head against a wall, and ride out your crestfall.
It will all be over soon, cloak lifted, birds tweeting, police officers making out.

I remember, one time I wrote a love poem in ninth grade.
It wasn't for anyone or about anything, it was simply my stab at the cadillac of poems.
It was formed by my television watching, awkward highschool years, and hatred of college sports.
Last night I found myself repeating it, word for word over and over.
I don't know whether I've succeeded or failed, but I do know this:
Theres very little I had to be thankful for this thanksgiving, but you're probably the most important.

Faith, it's a five letter word.

Pre-K, PS 58, PS 261, The Clinton School, Stuyvesant Highschool, Carleton College.

I'd like to burn it down, burn it all down, for this life we live is an ephemeral one.

(To specify, I'm not angry or an arsonist.)

The rain is here and you, my dear,
Are still my friend
Its true the two of us are back as one again

I was the one who left you
Always coming back I cannot forget you girl
Now I am up in arms again

Together now I dont know how this love could end
My lonely heart it falls apart again
For you to mend

I was the one who left you
Always coming back I cannot forget you girl
Now I am up in arms again

The foo fighters.

Why do I drive faster when the guitar riffs? I don't know, but cruisin on the hiptip is more my style.

Mending kits and toothbrushes are my days, and you are my nights.

It keeps my belly warm, and helps with the puddles.
I think you're slipping, you're getting blurred around the edges.
The end is near, and you're still howling at the moon.
The mad professor still listening to hip-hop way too loud.
Beer and fear and near and dear.
Bossa Nova Rico Suave.
I think you're slipping, I think you don't know what you want or where you're going.
And it kills me. That reflection. Its really killin' me.
Pull out the Q tip and turn the volume up.

"Never forget the love you've found or you'll remember the love you've lost."

Lucky Numbers 33, 21, 17, 5, 49, 6

March - San-yue

This is one of THE MOST elegant and meaningful fortune cookies I've ever gotten.
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"Education is what survives when what has been learnt has been forgotten."

Lucky Numbers 5, 18, 46, 15, 8, 29

Birthday - Sheng-dan-jie

This fortune blows. I can't believe the same author wrote it, but it was right in there next to the one above. Both with my sesame chicken.
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Ode To Darkening Days And The Way You Taught Me To Dream

The water is cold, and the lonely nights start getting darker, further, faster
The branches on the trees dance in tune with the northern wind, and tempt winter's grip
Fall aproaches and brings back the dread, bring out your dead
Memories, everyday, they come stronger and linger for weeks
Her face, those eyes, that face I love stares at me and whispers something I can't hear
The lips move, but the sound sinks to the floor like my heart in the fall
My ears strain in vain to hear, but the vision overtakes me
And I awake, into another dream, another day
Refreshed, I make my world and drift through it again
Can't quite make out the words, so I make them up in my memory
Eternal recurrence, and those blustery elysian fields so far away now
You're still asleep beside me in my dream and maybe thats why I can't wake up

Notes from Maine:

1. It’s really pretty pitiful when the resemblance of a man’s face in a mountain is the thing that you’re state is famous for. It’s on all the state highway signs, the state quarter…you name it. New Hampshire was really proud of the old man in the mountain. Proud that is, until he fell off in 2003. Now they have nothing to be famous for. They are like Vermont’s retarded sibling.

2. Maine, on the other hand, is one of my all-time favorite states. Vacationland has pretty much nothing wrong with it, except for the summer-time tourism traffic which plagues the otherwise pristine port towns dotting the coast like ellipses……………

3. Beaches hate Andrew Blum. I love them, and so I keep trying, but for the bagillionth time in a row I got a sunburn. At least this time it is contained to my legs only, which are pretty much glowing neon pink.

4. Bed and Breakfasts are spooky as hell. Especially the late Victorian one I stayed in with ghostly pictures on the walls, long gray-haired innkeepers, an old horse in the yard, furniture you couldn’t sit on, and complete with spooky two-tiered Rapunzel tower.

5. Lobster is as delicious as I remembered, and the beaches were better…

6. Saw Cary, which was the main purpose of the trip. He’s in good health, and seems tired of his summer as counselor, but seems good at his job, and well respected about the camp. He is so grown-up, and, for what it’s worth from a twenty-one year old, I am quite proud of him, and he always surpasses my expectations.

7. L.L. Bean has a hell of a store that is fucking huge, and full of the most recent old New England elegant fashion. As much as the whities with their tweed slacks, polo shirts, and firmly pressed jackets mildly disgust me, I still bought a pair of pants and two shirts from the outlet store. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

8. Oh, did I mention the antiques? Overpriced.

Factum Pro Vox

Hold back your tears my tiger-lily. Now hit it.

Watch me wilt. While I etch your soul in charcoal.

How is my criticism of beauty. Dare I utter a word about how I used to love her. How I used to embrace the ultimate nature which surrounds us? The natural aura of the feeling; the time of the day? Dare I have one last criticism of beauty, and on what grounds does it lay? It used to be too long I told her, though now, upon reflection, it was far too short, and my thoughts and dreams with it were too. The spectacle of the edge is presenting. And the completeness with which I have embraced it have me reminiscent. And still it shakes me like a brisk winter wind, hitting me as I turn the corner of a skyscraper on Wall street. Beauty, beauty, oh wherefore do you tempt me and hold me floating in the updraft like a piece of flotsam? Only to drop me like an anvil off of a cliff like in a roadrunner cartoon, minus the fun and a million miles from home.

"Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, nevermind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But trust me, in twenty years, you'll look back at photos of yourself, and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you, and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.

Don't worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at four PM on some idle tuesday.

Do one thing everyday that scares you.

Sing.

Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.

Floss.

Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. The race is long and, in the end, it's only with yourself.

Remember compliments you recieve, forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Keep your old love letters, throw away your old bank statements.

Stretch.

Don't feel guilty if you dont know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at twenty-two what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting fourty year olds I know still don't.

Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees, you'll miss them when they're gone.

Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at fourty, maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your seventy-fifth wedding annivesary.

Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either, your choices are half chance. So are everybody elses.

Enjoy your body. Use it everyway you can, don't be afraid of it or what other people think of it. Its the greatest instrument you'll ever own.

Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but in your living-room.
Read the directions, even if you don't follow them.

Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.

Get to know your parents. You never know when they'll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings. They're your best link to your past, and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.

Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who you knew when you were young.

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but, leave before it makes you soft.

Travel.

Don't mess too much with your hair or by the time you're 40 it will look 85.

Be careful whose advice you buy, but, be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth.

But trust me on the sunscreen."

Good advice. Trust is a thing we must only become. We know not ourselves, or our own situations, but only those things which befall us, or become readily apparent. Really, we must keep to our own business, and in the end, we must trust those we love.

Arrival, 3:09 pm. Late again, but again we will begin to begin.
Checkin. Let the face do the talking. Change your voice one more time.
Smile with your eyes, thats what she tells me. The mouth leaves you wanting more. I can't really do it. People know that I'm full of shit. Because I know I'm full of shit.
Check the bucket. Theres a fire alarm.
Check your face, the DFM file is outta control today. Where did that girl from room 235 go? And why did she smile at me? Does she like me? Does she think I need a haircut?
The fairies. The god damned green fairies. They lifted me up, and took me away. Bootin Balcony. 12:58.
Departure, 11:10. Start again, and begin to finish.
Though it never really does finish, and thus never started.
Drive, drive motherfucker, just drive and keep moving.
Stalk the insane Muhammed Drunk Driving Motherfucker. Holy shit, he's peeing. Get behind that tree, or he'll see you're following him.
Where is she, why can't I forget? Why do I wake up like this?
How come, when I close my eyes at night, its all I can do to prevent myself from praying. Am I a god-forsaken christian? Do I kneel at the foot? You'd like to know that wouldn't you.
Fuck you. Fuck your neuroses. And fuck your whole life. And fuck your word choice.
And fuck people who harass me in general. I'm a fucking grizzly bear, I shove stones, sticks, and bushes in my ass and hibernate just like the rest of us.
I hate how that line blurs, and your thoughts become mine. I hate the fact that you infect me with your dimetime pimpgame bullshit.
I keep it G'd up, and hold it down.
Let me tell you that one more time, asshole. No. I don't have any fucking tickets for you.
Conference call. 8:04 P.M. This is Mr. Smith from the animal control center, and we're investigating some shenanigans in the area. Someone has been decapitating cows in the parking lot. Her milkbag is spraying around like a ballon with a hole in it. Her hoofs have been strewn about the ground, and her horns are bashed, broken, and battered. She's been mutilated by the hands of a prankster.
You know, Jay-Z is a pretty smart guy. He ends the speculation in spectacular fashion, but I gesticulate my misery like a wad of shitgum.
How come bad things happen to good people I know? How come terrible strife and affliction befall the best of humanity, and the greedy skeezy hustlers win? Why ask the question you already know the answer to. Its a fine line between fact and fiction, and, as Talib would say, we're back on mission.
I'll dissolve your worries, and I'll bring you back to the platform you stood on so triumphantly. Anything short of a worthless smile, and a pink slip.
Elephant dreams. Dreaming of the march, the long humid deathmarch. The bombs over Beirut, and the tall israeli running the world.
Hell freezes over. Twin towers, or the view I never forget.
It all comes around, because it never really started. That is why birth is such a spectacle. Oh my god, oh my god the wife screams, as the husband grips her hand. This god that doesn't exist, that she doesn't believe in, is the only expression of pain she can make, even though the events leading up to this were long in the works.
The master plan is layered, thick and entangled like her pubic hair. The beading sweat on her forhead is the only thing keeping the NSA out of her head, and she's screaming OH MY GOD. OH MY MOTHERFUCKING GOD.
Well, USA, I've had enough, so I'm gone, either love me, or leave me alone. I'm moving to canada, but fuck that cause I hear western canada is like texas. AND FUCK TEXAS. For reasons I need not go into.
Special billing, 12:26 PM. I'm sorry, ma'am, but I don't have clearence to do that, and no, no I don't have any coupons. Right away, that is horrible, I am so sorry.
Did his dreams get flushed along with that engagement ring? Cause right now his dreams, your ring, and my life are all sitting in the same place, under a huge pile of shit, at the bottom of a well, at the worst place on earth.
Yet somehow I pull it out, and again, I will begin to begin.

Tell me your secrets
Endless worries of others
That I love to hear

Disposable heart
One for you to crinkle up
And throw in the trash

Three shitty Haikus
Written without my desire
All words and no heart

Lisa Lampanelli
I like lude vulgar language
You ugly white bitch

www.greenfieldpostherald.com/iss6/vol22/swmpdeath.html

Greenfield Post-Herald

7/25/06

Swimming Pool Deaths Increase 500% in Dross County, Louisiana.

As reported in last week's Post-Herald, the number of deaths due to swimming pool-related incidents has taken an alarming increase as the summer nears its hottest month. After the drowning deaths of four children and one adult last week, two new cases of pool related-deaths have brought the summer death toll for Dross county up to a staggering twenty-one. The chlorine-ingestion deaths of Timothy and Maura Brown this week, came as a shock to an already alarmed and devastated Dross county. The total is already more than five-times that of last year (four,) and all but three of the deaths have come since the summer solstice, June 21st.

This number has a lot of local residents locking-up or draining their pools entirely in a show of solidarity to those who have already died at the hands of the local pools. "As the number of deaths nears two dozen, I wonder if we might not have a serious swimming pool education problem," Mrs. Madelyn Scagnetti of La Grange wondered Monday at the funeral of twelve year-old Timmy Brown. "If the pool smells like it has been flooded with bleach, then do not get in. I don't know why that is so hard for kids to understand," said a sobbing Scagnetti, longtime lifeguard, and family friend of the parents, Peggy and Willard Brown.

"Its not just no running, and no horseplay," she continued, "Willard and Peggy are simply devastated."

This funeral comes one day after the funeral for his sister, Maura Brown, age ten. At the funeral for timmy, the casket was closed from the beginning, after the family decided not to have a repeat of what some are calling a "debacle" of a funeral on monday.

Family friends, and local residents, who had come to support the Browns at Maura's funeral on Sunday, said that the casket had to be closed part-way through the viewing, due to the condition of the body. Many gasped or screamed as they saw the corpse of the young girl, whose once peach-colored face had turned a sheer white. Others, overwhelmed by the sickly smell of the chlorine fell ill and vomited in, near, and around the casket during the spectacle. "The smell of bleach was overpowering," said Mr. Jared Johnson, Maura's fifth-grade teacher, tears streaming from his face.

"How so many could die due to swimming pool accidents in our county is beyond me," local sheriff Bob Newhart stated at his latest news conference to announce the most recent deaths. As part of an ongoing investigation into the incidents, Newhart is forming a new swimming pool security taskforce in an effort to contain the escalating swimming pool deathrate. "By educating the public about the rules and safety precautions that must be taken before, during, and after pool use, we hope to arm the public with the knowledge they need to avoid future accidents," a somber Newhart said. "This is why we are starting Pools Are Cool, a new taskforce dedicated to the safety and security of pool dwellers of Dross county."

Pools Are Cool, or its shortened name P.A.C. will immediately begin leafleting neighborhoods all around Dross county, particularly public pools, and areas where private swimming-pool concentrations are highest.

"We cannot afford even one more death related to swimming pools" Sheriff Newhart said near the close of the conference, "twenty-one is more than enough."

--Dawn Rumble, Staff Writer

At 2pm EST, blum was the highest man in massachusetts. I drove my sweet little hatchback 85 camry (my grandparents old car, and the one I was driven home from the hospital in) up the 7 mile ascent to the top of Mount Greylock. At an astounding 3,491 feet, it is the highest mountain in Mass. I took in the wonderful panoramic view a few yards from the Veterans War Memorial Tower, built in memory of the troops from Mass who fought for their country and died. It was an awe inspiring, breathtaking sight, as long as you looked out into the distance: surrounding me on all sides were gaping tourists, a product of the booming berkshire tourism industry, and partly the small role I play at a local resort in the area. I felt ashamed to be the only one (seemingly) to appreciate the view, as most of the people around me brought beachchairs and laptops. I couldn't believe it: who the fuck drives up a 3400 foot mountain to sit and talk on cellphones and stare at an LCD screen. The noise of the children aimlessly wandering around, and throwing rocks, yes, THROWING ROCKS off the fucking mountain was only barely drowned out by my own personal technoshame: my brand spankin' new ipod. Hypocritical, I know, but seeing as John Coltrane, and 82 degree weather with a perfect view are virtually the perfect synergy, I felt I had the moral HIGH ground...but enough elevated puns.

Finally, nearing fed up, I overheard a through hiker (the Appalachian goes right over the mountain) breathlessly shout to her partner, "fooood... its over there," and exhaustedly lift her right arm in the direction of the Bascom lodge, I couldn't help but let out a hearty chuckle. When she overheard my laugh, she turned, and practically broke down with laughter, I'm not sure if it was pure orgiastic energy from climbing one monstrous hell of a hill, or the exhaustion, but it was a hell of a site to see, seeing as we seemed to be the only people there to take in nature. The only ones happy to be at the top: the only ones not checking our email, and changing our ring tones to the newest mariah carey pop baloney borgeious bullshit midi-hell on earth ungodly noise escaping from our 200$ thing-a-ma-jigs.

On the way up I was almost run off the road by a Boston driver going fifty up the hill in a red jeep like a bat outta hell. How did I know they were from Boston? Well, if you have to ask, then you've never driven in Boston: they have this indescribable, instantly recognizable, indignant disregard for human safety that I would recognize anywhere.

On the way down, I stopped near a small waterfall, and filled my hands with the clearest water I've ever had the pleasure of ingesting, and took in a view from a false peak, maybe 200 yards down from the top...I stood out over the scenic overlook, arms outstretched, and marveled in the day that was afforded me. I could see almost all of Berkshire county, and it was clear enough to see well into Vermont, with views of Stratton Mountain, Haystack Mountain, and far beyond (at least a two hour drive.)

On another note, I am a phone-ranger. What that means, I can't really tell you, except to say it was quite the honor.

So fuck all you fake mountain climbers, I have been to the top of the mountain, and it was good. And I didn't need a cell phone to do it.

Now, down in the valley, I can look up at the beast of a crag, and know that I was once there, and could soon be back. Lookout my precious mountain, Andrew Blum will climb you, even though it brings views of higher vistas, and people further up in the stratosphere...

Strange memories here today in the lost county.

A dream of the worst day of my life. Double speak, double talk, two towers. Some explosions out the window out to the right. Eyes tremor. Eyes glancing, staring now, looking on to the twin bohemoths, the two giants that will be remembered by the masses as the "twin towers."

That fateful day, that day full of faith. Remembered around the media as the epitomy of evil.

Its not the evil, nor the evildoers that bother me. Its the high pitched whine of those jet-engines passing over my highschool. Its the news reports, not the ones in the weeks and months following the act, but the day of. The legitimate shock on the faces of the people on NBC, not the well rehearsed looks in the days after. The beleagured innocence of youth. Its the tender sensibilities of the kids in that classroom, the look of the kids around me, my classmates. Its the sinister migraine headache I had walking up that west side highway. Its the smell, its the smell of jetfuel, its the smell of that fucking jetfuel hovering around my head as I walked the three miles to the north side of the island.

Its the ridiculous quiet on the subway when they finally got running again.

Its the scraps of dust and ash and newspaper on my front lawn in brooklyn when I finally got home, its the angst-ridden thoughts that my father could have been dead, it the sorrowful response our country has made in its wake, its the fucked up melodrama that the day has become, its the dead soldiers in Iraq, and the scarred barren wasteland of Afghanistan.

Its the day, september eleventh. Not the date, 9.11.01.

Lets roll? Get fucking real...

Life is a slippery turtle.

Before I get into explanation, I'd like to talk shortly about the etymology of the term "slippery turtle." The hotel I work at, the wonderful Jiminy Peak Resort (note sarcasm) had a bad case of the spa shits about a week ago. Someone kept shitting on the floor of the health spa, and spraying the pink borax soap all over them. It happened a total of three times. The culprits went uncaught, and will forever be damned to hell for making housekeeping clean that foulness up. Anyway, today I was talking to Bill from housekeeping, and I noted that an appropriate name for them would be slippery turtles, which he, I and everyone present agreed upon.

Anyway, life is like a slippery turtle. It moves slowly and when you try to grab it, it scoots itself out from under you. The harder you grasp to it, the faster it passes you by, and you never really can get a grip on it. Not that you'd want to, since it smells like a mixture of handsoap and shit. But seriously, think about your life, and the times you were most happy. Then think about how little you were doing to control and change the things in your life at that time...you weren't right? When things are good, one thing seems to surmount the last, everything falling right into place without force, like the falling line of dominoes I talked about a few posts back. It is when we try to control our lives and the things around us, that we inevitably turn dour. Let it wander free, that turtle, cause the course he takes is the course you must follow. Just hope its upwind.

Stalking Moonlight Mouse

I hear owls
Who dare some
Silly mouse
To come and play
Squeak away
And screech
Your prayers
Stalked damn dead
In cold dark lairs
Barn burns black
To the earth
Comes crashing
The hymnal call
In the wood
Stalking all
And get
A good
Skull bashing
Swooping feathers fury
Gloomy moon
From mist
Sifting dooming death
Silent stalkers list
And bloody bashed
And left
Forboding
Bloated dead
Decrepit
And Loathing

Sometimes a man sits down to write something, and he doesn't know what it is he wants to write, when he spits out a gem. Sometimes its a diamond, sometimes its an emerald, and sometimes, its a ruby. Sometimes he puts down the perfect thought, raises his pen, contemplates on his writings, and gains insight on something. Sometimes he confuses himself, resigns himself, and ends up worse that he started. And he started with a blank page.

Bad things are BAD things, and the more you sit and contemplate them, the worse they seem upon reflection. Sometimes, you simply must drop the bad things in your life, and try to forget them.

Sometimes lists are the only way to properly construe thought, and gain insight.

The meaning of a word is not what the word represents, but rather the way its used, and the way that it uses it's speaker. I'll often sit to contemplate words and they'll stutter out of me, slowly falling to the floor like a feather drops listlessly from a height, back and forth, swinging. Ever so gently until it softly lands a million miles away. Far away. Far away from the bad things, so far away from meaning, that just to contemplate the substance of the sentence would be impossible.

Style. We must all create our own style. Some peoples styles match the prevailing style at the time. Whats in vogue. I've never been one to be swayed by the vogue, and I don't think that I ever will. There is one thing in this world that each of us has full control of, and that is our own thoughts. Our thoughts are influenced by the world around us, and the people around us, and the closer they are to you in physical presence, the more influence they have. The closer they are to you in spirit doesn't really mean shit, unless your thoughts are similar in style. Style has at least one thing over physical presence, namely, that a style one puts forth; the ethos one lives by, influences every physical thing in the world. Every thing I touch, and everything I put my name to, everything I think of, and everyone I've thought of, has been permanently stamped, in a way, by my style. I need not even interact with you, I need only express my style to you in a way becoming of your style, and immediately we'll connect on a much higher level than actually touching.

If I were to ask you what means more to you, a high-five from me, or a poem from me, I'd expect that all but the most foolish people would choose the latter. The former, while "cool" is simply just a prevailing idea, a meme of general consensus.

But here we run into a problem, namely that we can only embrace a meaningful style if we can't touch it. And you can't put your style into the things we call words, because they have different interpretations, by different people. It is not our words, but our styles that imprint themselves on everything we interact with, though not necessarily the physical things we touch.

You might think that we ought to be fully capable of understanding style through words, as this would be ideal. But more often than not (and this is often) the words used to represent style are really very inadequate. This is why many languages exist, and we do not all speak a universal language. There are shortcuts, and doodads, and memes and names that float about through many languages, but there are no universal words. This is why philosophers talk about "ness" I guess you could call somethings "ness" it's style; like for instance: I am blum. My style is blum-ness. But to describe it better than that would be fruitless, since, like the virgin mary, we can't touch them. I could use adjectives, but to someone from China, who speaks only chinese, it would be awful meaningless. That is why I prefer small words, or made up words. I prefer laughs to jokes, I prefer tears to sadness, and I prefer the physical manifestations of style, to the words which try to describe them.

Words are flowery, and they are all meant to decieve, especially when the listener's style is one that has a discerning ear. And one that won't be swayed by prevailance.

In the land of giants, things get crushed by toes.