Resurrecting Jack: (S) In the dying shadows and embers of a burning Christmas tree Somewhere between nightfall and dawn, I've always believed is where the truth lies. Not among the shattered wreckage of dreams as they sleep peacefully in the wind after you've already let them go and head off to the soul-crushing rat races; but in the frantic moments we spend laughing at films that aren't funny, and watching TV shows that we dislike. It lies in the eyes of the people that we share our secrets and our lies with. More than three months since my last entry, or at least, that's what the site proclaims. It has actually been more than a year; so then, why is it I have turned here to praise the night sky? Why is it that I find myself wishing upon a star in the birthplace of that phrase (as far as any red blooded American or pin-obsessed psychopath would be concerned, anyway) for a place that I already own, and have obtained. Perhaps it is because this hallowed night has returned without fail to commemorate the moment when my humanity was affirmed by the only human being on earth who thinks me a god... and I he. Perhaps Halloween is little more than the optical illusion of a Christmas coffin in your doombuggy to the unwashed masses. Or perhaps we all need a little joy, even as we celebrate death. Without a doubt, you are the clockwork of my night. A shadowbox that holds the nighttime cosmos as we all find ourselves hidden behind the rocks of our cowardice afraid of the sun's harmful rays. There was no flat out high-speed burn to Vegas, nor drinks beneath Boogie in the moonlight; but I recount these tales as I've always thought I would, in the shadow of them. This is the way all great memories reside, as titans among us waiting to be told. And so I have. In these passing lowly words I have poured forth as I never have before, and I have lived as no man has ever lived; yet never before have those castle gates meant more to anyone. In me I see hope, and a chance. I see the brightened future of experience and a tomorrow built of lies -- The finest we've ever told. Here lies a beginning; slain by the story put forth that stands above it. And awaiting an end more spectacular than can be predicted in the morality that lies in frantic oblivion. Time starts. Next year in *********. | �Repitition of Hatred�Loveless Avenue�Burn Out (and) Fade Away �Plofile�Notes�Host�Archive� |