In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody. Nobody is asleep. The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins. The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream, and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the street corner the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the stars.
Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody. Nobody is asleep. In a graveyard far off there is a corpse who has moaned for three years because of a dry countryside on his knee; and that boy they buried this morning cried so much it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.
Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful! We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead dahlias. But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist; flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths in a thicket of new veins, and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.
One day the horses will live in the saloons and the enraged ants will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the eyes of cows.
Another day we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue. Careful! Be careful! Be careful! The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm, and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention of the bridge, or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe, we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes are waiting, where the bear's teeth are waiting, where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting, and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.
Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody. Nobody is sleeping. If someone does close his eyes, a whip, boys, a whip! Let there be a landscape of open eyes and bitter wounds on fire. No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one. I have said it before.
No one is sleeping. But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the night, open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theaters.
I downloaded an RPG today called Somsnosa. It's essentially plotless, but it's real pretty to look at. I recommend it if you liked Space Funeral or just like looking at surrealist paintings.
ATC: Just right-click on the picture while it's loaded at TVT, save it to your computer, then repost it at Imgur or Heapbooru or any other site that allows hotlinking.
We actually had to perform his clapping music as part of our final exam, except that we tapped it out because we can't clap two different rhythms at the same time.
More things I found out just now: Those funny, synthesised beats a lot of old Hall & Oates songs used (the Voices/Private Eyes/H2O era) were indeed a drum machine, a Roland CR-78 CompuRhythm.
Comments
this looks tasty
Yeah, I'm reading The Faerie Queene.
It is awesome.
Read it, but start with the second story; it's a better beginning.
reviewer hit the nail on the head
umm
Because function over form.
So I assume anyway.
Alienware computers look cool but they're also overpriced and aren't actually that good.
it's not that there is no consideration given to design, it's that they seemed to be designed by someone with an appalling sense of aesthetics.
i mean
(*violent gagging*)
red
backlit
keys
ಠ_ಠ
omfg this video
also the sound design
i can't
now that's just a strange spelling
I downloaded an RPG today called Somsnosa. It's essentially plotless, but it's real pretty to look at. I recommend it if you liked Space Funeral or just like looking at surrealist paintings.
they doesn't allows it
I meant no harm, I really didn't.
I just wanted to post an amusing macro.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Yet.