{One amongst my favourite songs that I can sing. Would be able to match the deeply felt angst : The Man who Sold the World – Kurt Cobain}

the link :http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=209ArurxVG4

Il a frissonné légèrement, la pensée il doit y avoir un orage en route il a rappelé L’un matin de dimanche froid venteux, elle s’asseyait sur le banc.il s’est tenu devant elle, écoutant elle.il pourrait voir qu’une couche mince de chagrin dans sa yeux.elle regarde si farway et maintenant encore elle s’est tenue devant lui.il a cherché de l’autre côté de la rue pour la librairie où il Elle.il sait qu’elle rassemble des feuilles sèches et bourre le livre avec eux…. 

All the new thinking is about loss.
In this it resembles all the old thinking. 
The idea, for example, that each particular erases
the luminous clarity of a general idea. That the clown-
faced woodpecker probing the dead sculpted trunk
of that black birch is, by his presence,
some tragic falling off from a first world
of undivided light. Or the other notion that,
because there is in this world no one thing
to which the bramble of blackberry corresponds,
a word is elegy to what it signifies.
We talked about it late last night and in the voice
of my friend, there was a thin wire of grief, a tone
almost querulous. After a while I understood that,
talking this way, everything dissolves : justice,
pine, hair, woman, you and I. There was a woman
I made love to and I remembered how, holding
her small shoulders in my hands sometimes,
I felt a violent wonder at her presence
like a thirst for salt, for my childhood river
with its island willows, silly music from the pleasure boat,
muddy places where we caught the little orange-silver fish
called pumpkinseed. It hardly had to do with her.
Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances. I must have been the same to her.
But I remember so much, the way her hands dismantled bread,
the thing her father said that hurt her, what
she dreamed. There are moments when the body is as numinous
as words, days that are the good flesh continuing.
Such tenderness, those afternoons and evenings,
saying blackberry, blackberry, blackberry.

{My all time favourite Poem—by Robert Hass}

{link : But Girl You’ll Be Woman Soon – Pulp Fiction, which I feel reflects a few hues of me.Almost! As E.B.White said about his dog, “life is full of incidents without accomplishment”.Tch,tch!}