I feel sorry for Stacey

Sometimes, I wonder what I'm doing here
In the middle of this tiny square room
Filled with smoke and damp carpet
Soggy with spilled cheap champagne
With the mirrors and flashing lights
And plastic bowls half of salted peanuts
In their discarded shells.
And this room with tired waitresses
Lousy, overpriced drinks

Into the black...

I feel sorry for the men sometimes
Mostly I just feel contempt
The men with their furtive movements
and blank faces

I feel sorry for Stacey
Her face looks as though it's been stepped on
Though her body is like angel food
Almost too beautiful to look at
Her boyfriend probably doesn't when he hits her

I feel sorry for Lynne
With her expensive lingerie
Cheap dime store wigs
Trying to hide her identity
She's a Yale graduate with a huge loan debt
She hooks a little on the side

I feel sorry for Babette
With her henna'd Cleopatra hair
And large lumnious eyes
Her adorable accent of broken english
Can't hide her drug habit and predatory nature

Into the black...

Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing here
Dancing naked except for a few sequins
Lying to men for drink commissions
I take their room keys and make promises I know I won't fulfill
We're all victims in one way or another
We're all here for different reasons

Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing here
I like to sleep all day and stay out all night
The idea of a straight job is like the idea of a straightjacket
I like buying clothes
I like taking taxis
I'm pretty and intelligent
Sarcastic and selfish
I'm not going to be doing this forever

Into the black...

And I'm not going to be doing this forever
I'm only 18.

"I grasp myself, not as a constituting subject which is transparent to itself, and
which constitutes the totality of every possible object of thought and experience, but as a particular thought, as a thought engaged with certain objects, as a thought in act”  (Merleau-Ponty, 1964, p. 206)

from the darkest bottom of my heart

NATTEN - Hatet from marcus askelof on Vimeo.

I want to believe...

"They said the birds refused to sing and the thermometer fell suddenly as if God Himself had His breath stolen away. No one there dared speak aloud, as much in shame as in sorrow. They uncovered the bodies one by one. The eyes of the dead were closed as if waiting for permission to open them. Were they still dreaming of ice cream and monkey bars? Of birthday cake and no future but the afternoon? Or had their innocence been taken along with their lives buried in the cold earth so long ago? These fates seemed too cruel, even for God to allow. Or are the tragic young born again when the world's not looking? I want to believe so badly; in a truth beyond our own hidden and obscured from all but the most sensitive eyes...

In the endless procession of souls... in what cannot and will not be destroyed. I want to believe we are unaware of God's eternal recompense and sadness. That we cannot see His truth. That that which is born still lives and cannot be buried in the cold earth. But only waits to be born again at God's behest... where in ancient starlight we lay in repose."

Mulder, The X-Files

http://soundcloud.com/niia/mad-world

(Not: Bunu paylaştığın için teşekkürler Jaap)

"Fear is the memory of pain.

Addiction is the memory of

pleasure.

Freedom is beyond both."

Deepak Chopra