28 fevereiro 2011
26 fevereiro 2011
25 fevereiro 2011
24 fevereiro 2011
22 fevereiro 2011
20 fevereiro 2011
19 fevereiro 2011
dark cold night
I just like to be around
Walking
Lonely
Watching all the souls
They are moving with an intent
In a direction
But like their emptiness
Their intent is nothing
14 fevereiro 2011
astonished
and that was the 365 day after more many
he was petrified,
petrified with the world around him
flashes in
flashes out
it seemed to him he was wakin' up after centuries of sleeping
all the memories are a garden, a kid and some weeds and stones to play
now, is like he is stopped in the underground and all the people is moving like if he pressed the fast forward button.
where is he now?
what happened to the silent of birds singing?
he's seeing people moving inside aggregates of hollow worms.
after 543 seconds of pure delinquency and murmur in his head he now sees robots, it's impossible that that pseudo-beings are made of flesh and bones, not with their automation
what are they doing in the same place, all of them?
woowww... and it seems fast, and goes faster, and faster, all seems to collapse, the mix of sounds seems a growing symphony of sizzles, and the growing bust
he wakes
he is all wet
his hand are shakin' even clinged to the shriveled sheets.
from the open window he can hear the sound of the night cars
and all he wants is to fall into a black hole.
10 fevereiro 2011
Insurgentes
best part of insurgentes by lasse hoile about steven wilson:
the problem about arts it's because it's a job different that any other
in a normal job they can say your work is a shit and you move on
but in music or any other art your work comes from your soul, and if they say your music or your work shits, it's the same to say that you shit right?
08 fevereiro 2011
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