Monday, December 31, 2012

I thought I was safe because I knew you were a danger. We were tossed around in a dismal city in dismal bars shut up inside around the fires burning in our intoxicated hearts. You sang about the cold and I realized that was why I loved you. You made me want to write. You made me sing. But now you are nothing but another shadow outlining the shape of my dissatisfaction. I guess that was what I needed you for. Even now, you make me write. 

Saturday, December 1, 2012

Thus rejected she lies hid 
in the deep woods, hiding her blushing face                         
 with the green leaves; and ever after lives                          
concealed in lonely caverns in the hills.                         
 But her great love increases with neglect;                   
 her miserable body wastes away,                         
 wakeful with sorrows; leanness shrivels up                       
   her skin, and all her lovely features melt,                          
as if dissolved upon the wafting winds--                        
  nothing remains except her bones and voice--                
    her voice continues, in the wilderness;                          
her bones have turned to stone. She lies concealed                  
        in the wild woods, nor is she ever seen                         
 on lonely mountain range; for, though we hear                  
        her calling in the hills, 'tis but a voice,                   
a voice that lives, that lives among the hills.                       
   Thus he deceived the Nymph and many more, 

sprung from the mountains or the sparkling waves; 

-Ovid, Metamorphosis