These words flow like freshly-poured concrete.
This is the rain,
falling outside your window,
percussive on a tin roof,
seeping into the sidewalk's cracks,
And this is my own heartbeat,
racing every time you walk by--
you enter the room,
speaking of faraway lands.
The rain may stop falling,
and you'll see me soon,
glancing backwards just to make sure
I know where I've been.
I'm not safe in my own dreams,
I'll play this nocturne from back to front,
And I only hope that you'll soon wake up--
I will dance for three thousand years.
I'm much better at using other people's words to express how I feel.
But today I tried for myself.
If you gave me the chance, I would tell a story through dance-- that way I can use my entire self to show you, not tell you.
I have a lot to share.
There are many things that I would like to say to you
But I don't know how
I recommend this version of Wonderwall. It's haunting. Walk outside, in the rain, nighttime preferably, alone.
I want to walk through the rain, at night, but I don't want to walk alone.
If you think emo got a grip on you, just wait til you see me. Humanities of China, I would like very much to not deal with you for I have enough to think about as it is.
...The young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat. - "Acceptance" - William Faulkner