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 Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2005 8:23 pm
ninja
Greetings from a shadow.
My attendance as of late has been less than desireable, but sometimes RL throws big bricks at you, and you must pick up those bricks and read them, and then write long tidius reports on those bricks, and then realize that you still haven't opened your 115$ text book with a mid-term on monday.
At least, I did two of those three things. ^^
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Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2005 8:25 pm
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Fractured Moonlight Captain
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Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2005 8:26 pm
You have a habit of popping in when i'm popping off. ^^
I hate writing book reports. Mostly because you have to find supporting information for everything you argue about...what's the fun in that? What if...ah never mind. The topic has been yelled at and shot/tared/feathered/run over by a buss already.
*tackles because the girls have been smothering me with cutness. Caught the bug.*
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Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2005 8:28 pm
Indeed, not bad.
Give me a quill, and I shall write a tale so ghastly that it will make your heart quench for relief, your soul shall cry out, and the stars will bring nothing but gloom to your darkness...
That had nothing to do with the book I read. I read about how Guns Germs and Steel won the world for the west, but the auther decided to explore why the Euroes had those things.
In the end, the world as it is now, is the result of dumb luck on the part of the Europeans.
I seem to have draw you back into this tangled web that I weave, with such vigor and intrigue that none are spared from my twisted dreams.
Or not...
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Fractured Moonlight Captain
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Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2005 8:32 pm
Poetic as ever, ain't ya?
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Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2005 8:36 pm
That....is...really...freaky...
My boyfriend (who's name is David, if you recall) just finished reading Guns Germs and Steel, and wrote a report on it for his history class..
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Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2005 8:37 pm
Repressed poetics. In essays, I am not suposed to be so kindly to my words as to spin a phrase or two, the intrigue is to be lacking, and all facts must be layed barren before me.
Its like gouging out my writer's soul and smashing it with words that are meaningless and trivial. In the end, my choice of words always was a little off.
*crackes neck*
Time to spin a phrase or two, then agian, my heart is no where at the moment, for within my deepening scar, the once vibrate song of my heart, I hear only the cries of pained conjegates and horrid adverbs, the lack of lustering adjectives, and the tragic loss of adjectives. Spun with the fury of short, brutal sentances, my hands grow weary. The song that must be sung, is lost forever to these hands, ne'er to write with the gentle bliss of eternal dreams expressed through mighty ballads, a skald no more, a bard forgotten, a slain singer of triumphant phrases...
Did everyone catch the contradiction?
Yes, Miss Dawn, that was the book. It is a popular book. But, it was writen for children. The grammer made me cry, the sound of his insesent writers voice assulted my senses, and left me empty.
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Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2005 8:39 pm
I...will write cards with you, and sell them on ebay.
And I caught the condradiction.
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Fractured Moonlight Captain
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Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2005 8:41 pm
I tried that once, didn't work out that well.
I am not poetic on command.
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Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2005 8:43 pm
Ah well, it takes me weeks to put out anything poetic.
Silly I can do. Poetry I can't.
Just looked at my last poem. I used to be proud of it....
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Fractured Moonlight Captain
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Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2005 8:46 pm
I'll stick to my drawing, thanks.
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Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2005 8:48 pm
A poem... A dream in words.
A song... A play on words.
A saga... True mastery.
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Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2005 8:56 pm
saga includes music right?
But then again, I don't compose either. The theory of music just enver stuck with me, though i play my clarinet well enough.
I tihnk I might have dne some enat things wiht my writing but..*shrugs* nothing of any really important note.
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Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2005 9:00 pm
The closest I've been to music is some piano, oboe, and lyric writing.
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Fractured Moonlight Captain
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Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2005 9:02 pm
Music, a muse, one which I barely touch, as I never cared for the practice or effort, nor did I enjoy the theory, which made sense but none. My memory would never allow me to commit to such things.
I was truly a waste, in my teacher's eyes. As I had the talent, but not the rythme. I could play the notes, but not the song. Lost forever I could be, in a single note upon my machine.
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