Orcish Fodder, Eat My Wind.
I spent most of the day working on an elaborate mixed cd and played Finaly Fantasy. I'm a level 10 Tarutaru black mage! Woo Hoo! I found out today that the crazy ass black woman that I was supposed to be renting a house from decided to rent it out to someone else. I should have known. The crazy bitch refused to let me put the deposit on the place to hold it for me. Oh well. I'm sure it just wasnt meant to be. I may just end up saving up enough to get my own place. That could be nice and it could also end up to be really boring. Caroline called me today and we talked about her date with 4 foriegners and a bottle of fresh pimp juice. I bet she's having a zainy good time. I bought a new album a few days ago on a whim. I liked the cover art and asked Tom if he hadheard it. He said he hadn't and asked me if I wanted a listen. Of course I couldnt resist. After listening to it enough I decided that I liked it enough to buy it. What do they sound like? Imagine Low, The American Analog Set, L´Altra or Mazzy Star in the tailing wind of a tequila hangover, simmering under Spanish dusk. Fucking gorgeous. The lyrics this woman writes are absolutley mesmerizing. It's all in portuguise making it all the more enchanting. I'll end this entry will the lyrics from one of the songs on the album.
ON THE ESPLANADE
Only the wind persists in this neighborhood; sprouting from the spaces between tiles, combing the vacant lots.
The wind, that curdles our blood, that tears the leaves off of trees, that lays out gray hair over the esplanade,
on every factory closed down, on every crane without words.
The wind, that is borne from the ground, at noon, and wisps around that chimney
that someone that someone’s keeping as a token of better days.
The wind, that gives us this weak and eternal frost,
that one by one it pulls us,
pins us
to this corner where, in the end, there’s no way in hell to get warm.
ON THE ESPLANADE
Only the wind persists in this neighborhood; sprouting from the spaces between tiles, combing the vacant lots.
The wind, that curdles our blood, that tears the leaves off of trees, that lays out gray hair over the esplanade,
on every factory closed down, on every crane without words.
The wind, that is borne from the ground, at noon, and wisps around that chimney
that someone that someone’s keeping as a token of better days.
The wind, that gives us this weak and eternal frost,
that one by one it pulls us,
pins us
to this corner where, in the end, there’s no way in hell to get warm.