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Literature Text
What is the past to you, I'm asked
Why, the past is a corpse, my friend
It cannot live, it cannot breathe
And you cannot be there again
Unearth it, dissect it
Prop it up in a chair
Learn from it what you can
For you cannot live there
Why, the past is a corpse, my friend
It cannot live, it cannot breathe
And you cannot be there again
Unearth it, dissect it
Prop it up in a chair
Learn from it what you can
For you cannot live there
Literature
What time is it?
She was standing at the departure platform and looked to the ground. Cold wind blew around her, but she barely felt it. A voice announced that the train would arrive six minutes later.
It didn't matter, nothing mattered anymore. She looked upwards, at the big clock hanging from the ceiling, saw the clock-hand jerk forward, with every second passing. It had started to rain.
She looked around; there were a lot of other people at the platform. They were listening to music, talking to each other, reading a book, some were even laughing. Others just stood there waiting impatiently. A young couple were holding hands, kissing each other. Again she
Literature
The Thing
I lay still in my bed,
Mr. Ted by my side,
And listen hard for the thing
That crawls around outside.
He'll start with the scratching,
It's always the same,
His claws carving the face
Of the wooden door frame.
Then he'll move onto the blood
Seeping beneath my door,
Dripping from the walls,
Covering the floor.
The wardrobe will squeak,
Those green eyes appear,
Voices will whisper
Dark words in my ear.
Their dead hands will tug
At the edge of my sheets
And insects will crawl
All over my feet.
I lay and wait
For their games to begin.
But tonight will be different,
I whisper with a grin,
Tonight I will show
Those monsters a scare.
They can come b
Literature
The Sadist
The Sadist:
I love it most when they scream in pain;
Cliched as that might sound.
Their tearful pleading exhilarates me;
Especially when they are unbound...
I adore the feeling of letting them run
In the knowledge that they won't get away.
I'm afraid that once you enter my lair;
You are simply here to stay...
My greatest joy is in wresting confessions
For in pain they admit to any crime.
How many times have they renounced their devils
Squealing all the time...
A white hot poker, can work such wonders
The tightest of tongues will turn to slack.
I like to hold it against their flesh;
Until it blisters, chars and goes utterly bla
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Just a little personal philosophy ...
Comments14
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Technically, this is another good lyric
that could be set to music....
re the philosophy...this is true...
the past is most useful to learn from...
much to rue...and much to smile about, no?
and you are persuasive...
But, what to do with the memories?
Esp. the good ones?
that could be set to music....
re the philosophy...this is true...
the past is most useful to learn from...
much to rue...and much to smile about, no?
and you are persuasive...
But, what to do with the memories?
Esp. the good ones?