Pearl Jam – Black

Hey…oooh…
Sheets of empty canvas, untouched sheets of clay
Were laid spread out before me as her body once did
All five horizons revolved around her soul
As the earth to the sun
Now the air I’ve tasted and breathed has taken a turn
Ooh, and all I taught her was everything
Ooh, I know she gave me all that she wore
And now my bitter hands chafe beneath the clouds
Of what was everything?
Oh, the pictures have all been washed in black, tattooed everything…

I take a walk outside
I’m surrounded by some kids at play
I can feel their laughter, so why do I sear
Oh, and twisted thoughts that spin round my head
I’m spinning, oh, I’m spinning
How quick the sun can drop away
And now my bitter hands cradle broken glass
Of what was everything
All the pictures have all been washed in black, tattooed everything…

All the love gone bad turned my world to black
Tattooed all I see, all that I am, all I will be…yeah…
Uh huh…uh huh…ooh…

I know someday you’ll have a beautiful life, I know you’ll be a star
In somebody else’s sky, but why, why, why
Can’t it be, can’t it be mine

LUDACRIS – RUNAWAY LOVE

[Hook - Mary J. Blige]
Runaway love
Runaway love
Runaway love
Runaway love
Runaway love
Runaway love
Runaway love
Runaway love

[Verse 1]
Now little lisa is only 9 years old
Shes tryin to figure out why the world is so cold
Why shes all all alone and they never met her family
Mamas always gone and she never met her daddy
Part of her is missin and nobody will listenin
Mama is on drugs gettin high up in the kitchen
Bringin home men at different hours of the night
Startin with laughs–usually endin in a fight
Sneak into her room while her mamas knocked out
Tryin to have his way and little lisa says ‘ouch’
She tries to resist but then all he does is beat her
Tries to tell her mom but her mama don’t believe her
Lisa is stuck up in the world on her own
Forced to think that hell is a place called home
Nothin else to do but some get some clothes and pack
She says shes bout to run away and never come back.

[Hook]
Runaway love
Runaway love
Runaway love
Runaway love
Runaway love
Runaway love
Runaway love
Runaway love

[Verse 2]
Little nicole is only 10 years old
Shes steady tryin to figure why the world is so cold
Why shes not pretty and nobody seems to like her
Alcoholic step dad always wanna strike her
[ Runaway Love lyrics found on http://www.completealbumlyrics.com ]
Yells and abuses, leaves her with some bruises

Teachers ask questions she makin up excuses
Bleedin on the inside, cryin on the out
Its only one girl really knows what she about
Her name is lil stacy and they become friends
Promise that they always be tight til the end
Until one day lil stacy gets shot
A drive by bullet went stray up on her block
Now nicole stuck up in the world on her own
Forced to think that hell is a place called home
Nothin else to do but some get some clothes and pack
She says shes bout to run away and never come back.

[Hook]
Runaway love
Runaway love
Runaway love
Runaway love
Runaway love
Runaway love
Runaway love
Runaway love

[Verse 3]
Little erica is eleven years old
Shes steady tryin to figure why the world is so cold
So she pops x to get rid of all the pain
Cause shes havin sex with a boy whos sixteen
Emotions run deep and she thinks shes in love
So theres no protection hes usin no glove
Never thinkin bout the consequences of her actions
Livin for today and not tomorrows satisfaction
The days go by and her belly gets big
The father bails out he aint ready for a kid
Knowin her mama will blow it all outta proportion
Plus she lives poor so no money for abortion
Erica is stuck up in the world on her own
Forced to think that hell is a place called home
Nothin else to do but get her clothes and pack
She say shes about to run away and never come back.

[Hook]
Runaway love [repeats til end]

THE LIES AGREED UPON.

Thanks Diogo in his DimEcaverna for the tip.

THE LIES AGREED UPON.

“Thank you, sir. Your new identification card will arrive soon”. I hang up the phone as I thought of all the other calls and requests that had to be made. 8:24. Must hurry. Job. I got up to take a shower. My boss would know my new identification by now. My badge remade, my desk switched, and all the papers I had ever signed would be replaced. Got out, dressed up, and looked out the window. The gigantic tower of the Republic cast a shadow over the city, and blocked my sun. 8:45. Must hurry. Job.

I walked out, pressing my thumb in the pad beside the door, automatically sealing the house. The car was by the front porch. An 1990 Chevrolet Camaro. It was 32 years old, but to me it worked as though it was new. 8:49. Must hurry. Putting the small black suitcase in the passenger’s seat, I drove. The Republic was not far, and the building – or the torso as I called – was not hard to find. Still, no one ever remembered its street. People never took directions nowadays. It was pointless. They would be relabeled. They always were. 8:56. Finally arrived.

Passing through the security system, they checked my saliva. As soon as the 10-seconds-process was complete the guard let me pass. “Good morning, Mr. Imbecile”. Just yesterday I had been Mr. Baldy, but I guess that being Imbecile was now more cared about than being bald. Stopping at the front desk, Mrs. Charming gave me my new badge. I took the elevator. 9:00. I was at my desk. My new desk. It had my new label on it. I looked at my computer, and saw the post-it note on the screen. Sitting down, I took the small yellow paper off my monitor and read it.

RL – book on desk

There was a book on my desk. Apparently the author of “The green house of the hilltop” had been cheated on by his wife. His whole image of perfection had been blown. He was now Mr. Fraud. My task was simple. Re-label his name on the cover and inside the book, and destroy the old version. An order was being released to all citizens to giver their copies back. The new relabeled one would be given in return. They Republic thought people would not notice. We all knew it. We all lived it.

I was tired. My whole life I have had the worst labels. When I was born I was Dysfunction (I had been born prematurely). When I first went to school I had become Lame. In High School I was Faggot. Until yesterday I was Bald; now I’m Imbecile. And they were right. I am as Imbecile as one could be. Imbecile enough to be slave of those labels. Right now I’m changing someone’s life work. Re-labeling it. Denigrating it. I became what I loathe. Maybe my next label is Kiss-ass. The Republic made my life miserable too long. Enough. 9:20. The book is relabeled. The other burned. I myself have a copy. I’ll keep it.

The day goes by. More labels to change. Not names, not titles. Labels. Like those white ones you use to identify the parts of a school binder, and get tore and dirty with time. Those you can easily replace. That’s all we have, all we live for, or live of. Labels define ourselves, our friends, our lovers, our body, and even – in some cases – our sexual preference. No girl wanted me in High School. Even though I liked them, they didn’t like faggots. Mind is pointless. Still is the only place where I am my label-less me. My mind has not agreed upon the lies that are my life. God… is humanity lost? Even God has been relabeled. He is now Commander. 6:02. They are wrong. To me God was God, and Mr. Fraud was still Mr Perfection. And I… I was Mr. Free. 6:03. Time to go.

In the way back I turned on the radio. All the books had to be turned in by now. Some of my co-workers went home earlier on to get their copies. I kept mine. 6:11. Home sweet home. I opened the mail box. My new documents had arrived. Mr. Imbecile here had now four hours to return the old ones; they worked over night. I had dinner alone, always alone. The house smelled of pity. 7:36. went to bed earlier.

BAM! 11:17. I heard the noise. Four armed man kicked my door and circled me. “Mr. Imbecile. You did not return your copy of “The green house of the hilltop.”

“No. I kept my copy. I like it better without being relabeled.”

“Sir, do you understand this is a capital crime?”

“A crime? What crime is in wanting the truth,” a man entered the room. That face was known to me. Mr. Head, a powerful figure within the Republic.

“Mr. Imbecile. I will give you a chance. Just give us you book and you can get any label you want,” the offer was promising, but I had made up my mind. I didn’t answer. Instead, I closed my eyes and lay down back in the bed.

“Very well. You shall get a new label. Brainless,” he motioned and gave the command.

They shot. The final lies that were my life had been agreed by all but one… my mind. 11:25. I was the Brainless Mr. Free.

The Dark Knight

The Dark Knight é provavelmente é melhor filme de super-heróis já feito. O motivo é pela fórmula usada no filme. Esqueça a mesma história de sempre em que o herói apanha, mas vence no final. Em The Dark Knight não há vencedores. O Joker jogou as cartas corretamente, cada parte de seu plano foi friamente calculada, o que é irônico, pois ele “não é alguém que planeja coisas com antecedência”. Heath Ledger fará falta. Muita falta. O ator não só entendeu o Joker… ele morreu por causa dele. O papel de sua vida, o melhor de sua carreira e infelizmente ele não está aqui para ver. Não em vão. Ele merece muito mais que Oscars, ele merece mais que uma homenagem. Ele merece ser eternizado. O melhor JOKER que o mundo já viu. To the world I am just like him… a freak.

Why So Serious Son? Why so Serious Son? Let’s put a smile on that face.

Enemy

Tick tock. The clock stopped at 12. The night in its most frightening hour devoured the sky outside. Time seemed to slow itself. He couldn’t sleep. The pale face of the man hid beneath the darkness. Darkness meant he would be safe, but only for a couple of hours. It would be back. It always came back, and, as long as it wasn’t dark, it would stay. There were no lights around. He was safe. The man kept looking outside, wishing that 6AM never came. Morning would bring It to life, and It would follow the man, It would try to take his life. It had tried before, and It would try again.

It could not bear being only the shadow. It wanted a life of its own, but as long as the man was alive, It – the shadow – would have to follow. It was the order of things. Humans live, shadows follow.

The man knew all about shadows. He had seen his shadow moving once, heard its whisper, and seen its empty grey eyes. It was conscious, and it was vicious. Shadows are the opposite of its humans. His shadow was devious. It could kill, it would kill.

Something happened outside. A strange light lit the street as people gathered around a fatal accident. An explosion. At first the man was blinded, and then he was afraid. Light! There could be no light. He stood up. Noise.

“Who’s there?” asked the man but no answer came. He looked at the floor now reflecting the light outside. It wasn’t there, his shadow was missing. The man was not crazy. For years had he been fancied mad, but there rested no madness. It was fear. His enemy was too close. His enemy was part of him. Noise.

The curtain behind him had been ripped apart. The light now was greater than ever. It shone throughout all the room that was now as clear as day. “Where are you?” screamed the man.

It just waited for a perfect moment and It was not alone. More shadows had come, all from the dead bodies that now lay in the street. It was their master. The shadows had planned their emancipation. Freedom was minutes away. The man walked to a dark room, but the shadows had locked all. He started to cry in despair. “Show yourself,” he screamed, and screamed, but no one seemed to listen.

It was happening, he thought. Soon he would be dead, the It would take over. Noise. Noise. Noise. The noise became clearer and clearer every time. It was a whisper. It was closer, and closer. “Why?” asked the man. It showed itself in the wall. His feet connected to It. “Because I deserve freedom from your mind,” It whispered back as It lunched forward. The other shadows crept from behind and held the man’s hands. They brought a knife and its blade went through the man’s chest. The color of his eyes was gone.

The man breathed again and opened his eyes. He looked out in the window… two cars were about the crash. He ran and tried to get in other room, but it was locked. An explosion succeeded an great deal of light. He looked at the curtain, it was ripped. He looked at floor, It wasn’t there. The man ran out of the door filled with madness. An impulse came to his mind and he obeyed. Slowly he walked towards the fire, throwing himself at the flames. They soon consumed his flesh, leaving only a shadow. It smiled and the other shadows gathered. Time seemed to slow itself. Tick tock. The clock in the house stopped at 12.

Radiohead – Creep Acoustic

Toda vez que eu vou jogar RockBand com meu primo ele coloca essa música. É a mais fácil de cantar E tocar. Vale a pena assistir a animação

Caminhão de Bens

Quando Deus criou Adão e Eva, disse aos dois:

- Tenho dois presentes para distribuir entre vocês: um é para fazer xixi em pé e…

Adão, ansiosíssimo, interrompeu, gritando:

- Eu! Eu! Eu! Eu! Eu quero, por favor… Senhor, por favor, por favor, Sim?

Facilitaria-me a vida substancialmente! Por favor! Por favor! Por favor!

Eva concordou e disse que essas coisas não tinham importância para ela.

Então, Deus presenteou Adão.

Adão ficou maravilhado. Gritava de alegria, corria pelo jardim do Éden fazendo xixi em todas as árvores. Correu pela praia fazendo desenhos com seu xixi na areia. Brincava de chafariz. Acendia uma fogueirinha e brincava de bombeiro….

Deus e Eva contemplavam o homem louco de felicidade, até que Eva perguntou a Deus:

- E… qual é o outro presente?

Deus respondeu:

- Cérebro, Eva, cérebro.

Já visitou o Triplo Sentido hoje?.

The Reason to Bigotry

Ever felt like you lived two different lives? It feels as though you are cheating on one life with the other. Not that really have two different lives, or girlfriends for that matter (lucky me if I had one). It’s really about which life contains the most lies you tell, and which one contains the most truthful part of you. Enough of that open heart story. Try to be honest. What is the biggest lie you have ever told? If biggest lie it too complex for you – or maybe too strong – try what was the nicest thing I have ever done for someone? You see it too right? Maybe I lied in both occasions, but one looks a lot worse than the other.

Now truth is really overrated. It hurts; it leaves scars, but is still the simplest answer to all questions. Not that I prefer lies, but lies are inevitable. Can you live without breathing? Didn’t think so. Well, you can’t live without lying either. I know… sad but true. Some people live of lying, and those cannot discern between a cheap lie, and well arranged truth. What makes me go back to my double life. There’s the one in which I feel free to be whatever I want to be, and there’s the one I feel free to lie more – I mean – I feel free to be nicer to people. One life doesn’t know about the other. They shouldn’t… it would disrupt the balance.

I feel like a bigamist that has to make a choice. While I can’t decide which life I like better you can tell me about your life. So what will it be? Do you want me to lie and say that I care, or be nice and say that I don’t?

The Pedestrian

THE PEDESTRIAN

by Ray Bradbury

To enter out into that silence that was the city at eight o’clock of a misty evening in November, to put your feet upon that buckling concrete walk, to step over grassy seams and make your way, hands in pockets, through the silences, that was what Mr Leonard Mead most dearly loved to do. He would stand upon the corner of an intersection and peer down long moonlit avenues of sidewalk in four directions, deciding which way to go, but it really made no difference; he was alone in this world of 2053 A.D., or as good as alone, and with a final decision made, a path selected, he would stride off, sending patterns of frosty air before him like the smoke of a cigar.

Sometimes he would walk for hours and miles and return only at midnight to his house. And on his way he would see the cottages and homes with their dark windows, and it was not unequal to walking through a graveyard where only the faintest glimmers of firefly light appeared in flickers behind the windows. Sudden gray phantoms seemed to manifest upon inner room walls where a curtain was still undrawn against the night, or there were whisperings and murmurs where a window in a tomb-like building was still open.

Mr Leonard Mead would pause, cock his head, listen, look, and march on, his feet making no noise on the lumpy walk. For long ago he had wisely changed to sneakers when strolling at night, because the dogs in intermittent squads would parallel his journey with barkings if he wore hard heels, and lights might click on and faces appear and an entire street be startled by the passing of a lone figure, himself, in the early November evening.

On this particular evening he began his journey in a westerly direction, toward the hidden sea. There was a good crystal frost in the air; it cut the nose and made the lungs blaze like a Christmas tree inside; you could feel the cold light going on and off, all the branches filled with invisible snow. He listened to the faint push of his soft shoes through autumn leaves with satisfaction, and whistled a cold quiet whistle between his teeth, occasionally picking up a leaf as he passed, examining its skeletal pattern in the infrequent lamplights as he went on, smelling its rusty smell.

‘Hello, in there,’ he whispered to every house on every side as he moved. ‘What’s up tonight on Channel 4, Channel 7, Channel 9? Where are the cowboys rushing, and do I see the United States Cavalry over the next hill to the rescue?’

The street was silent and long and empty, with only his shadow moving like the shadow of a hawk in mid-country. If he closed his eyes and stood very still, frozen, he could imagine himself upon the center of a plain, a wintry, windless Arizona desert with no house in a thousand miles, and only dry river beds, the street, for company.

‘What is it now?’ he asked the houses, noticing his wrist watch. Eight-thirty P.M.? Time for a dozen assorted murders? A quiz? A revue? A comedian falling off the stage?’

Was that a murmur of laughter from within a moon-white house? He hesitated, but went on when nothing more happened. He stumbled over a particularly uneven section of sidewalk. The cement was vanishing under flowers and grass. In ten years of walking by night or day, for thousands of miles, he had never met another person walking, not one in all that time.

He came to a cloverleaf intersection which stood silent where two main highways crossed the town. During the day it was a thunderous surge of cars, the gas stations open, a great insect rustling and a ceaseless jockeying for position as the scarab-beetles, a faint incense puttering from their exhausts, skimmed homeward to the far directions. But now these highways, too, were like streams in a dry season, all stone and bed and moon radiance.

He turned back on a side street, circling around toward his home. He was within a block of his destination when the lone car turned a corner quite suddenly and flashed a fierce white cone of light upon him. He stood entranced, not unlike a night moth, stunned by the illumination, and then drawn toward it.

A metallic voice called to him:
‘Stand still. Stay where you are! Don’t move!’
He halted.
‘Put up your hands!’
‘But-’ he said.
‘Your hands up! Or we’ll shoot!’
The police, of course, but what a rare, incredible thing; in a city of three million, there was only one police car left, wasn’t that correct? Ever since a year ago, 2052, the election year, the force had been cut down from three cars to one. Crime was ebbing; there was no need now for the police, save for this one lone car wandering and wandering the empty streets.
‘Your name?’ said the police car in a metallic whisper. He couldn’t see the men in it for the bright light in his eyes.
‘Leonard Mead,’ he said.
‘Speak up!’
‘Leonard Mead!’
Business or profession?’
‘I guess you’d call me a writer.’
No profession,’ said the police car, as if talking to itself. The light held him fixed, like a museum specimen, needle thrust through chest.
‘You might say that,’ said Mr Mead.
He hadn’t written in years. Magazines and books didn’t sell anymore. Everything went on in the tomb-like houses at night now, he thought, continuing his fancy. The tombs, ill-lit by television light, where the people sat like the dead, the gray or multi-colored lights touching their faces, but never really touching them.
‘No profession,’ said the phonograph voice, hissing. ‘What are you doing out?’
‘Walking,’ said Leonard Mead.
‘Walking!’
‘Just walking,’ he said simply, but his face felt cold.
‘Walking, just walking, walking?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Walking where? For what?’
‘Walking for air. Walking to see.’
‘Your address!’
‘Eleven South Saint James Street.’
‘And there is air in your house, you have an air conditioner, Mr Mead?’
Yes.’
‘And you have a viewing screen in your house to see with?’
‘No.
‘No?’ There was a crackling quiet that in itself was an accusation.
‘Are you married, Mr Mead?’
‘No.’
‘Not married,’ said the police voice behind the fiery beam. The moon was high and dear among the stars and the houses were gray and silent.
‘Nobody wanted me,’ said Leonard Mead with a smile.
‘Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to!’
Leonard Mead waited in the cold night.
‘Just walking; Mr Mead?’
‘Yes.’
But you haven’t explained for what purpose.’
‘I explained; for air, and to see, and just to walk.’
‘Have you done this often?’
Every night for years.’
The police car sat in the center of the street with its radio throat faintly humming.
‘Well, Mr Mead’, it said.
‘’s that all?’ he asked politely.
‘Yes,’ said the voice. ‘Here.’ There was a sigh, a pop. The back doot of the police car sprang wide. ‘Get in.’
‘Wait a minute, 1 haven’t done anything!’
‘Get in.’
‘I protest!’
‘Mr Mead.’
He walked like a man suddenly drunk. As he passed the front window of the car he looked in. As he had expected, there was no one in the front seat, no one in the car at all.
‘Get in.’
He put his hand to the door and peered into the back seat, which was a little cell, a little black jail with bars. It smelled of riveted steel. It smelled of harsh antiseptic; it smelled too clean and hard and metallic. There was nothing soft there.
‘Now if you had a wife to give you an alibi,’ said the iron voice. ‘But-’
Where are you taking me?’

The car hesitated, or rather gave a faint whirring click, as if information, somewhere, was dropping card by punch- slotted card under electric eyes. ‘To the Psychiatric Center for Research on Regressive Tendencies.’

He got in. The door shut with a soft thud. The police car rolled through the night avenues, flashing its dim lights ahead.

They passed one house on one street a moment later, one house in an entire city of houses that were dark, but this one particular house had all of its electric lights brightly lit, every window a loud yellow illumination, square and warm in the cool darkness.

‘That’s my house,’ said Leonard Mead.

No one answered him.

The car moved down the empty riverbed streets and off away, leaving the empty streets with the empty sidewalks, and no sound and no motion all the rest of the chill November night.

The Reason of Beauty – Wordle version