(no subject)

[cabbitzilla]

surely I could tell
when I sleep tonight
a dream will call
and raise it's head in majesty
dividing all my energy
to the meeting of your love

where from whence it came
like a singer searching for a song
I try to reach where you belong
as I will be the song for you
I will be your servant child

no, oh no

I cannot be deceived

no, oh no

there's something that I feel

there's something that I feel inside

surely I could tell
if you ask me Lord
to board the train

my life my love would be the same
as I could be the one for you
in the meeting of your love
in the meeting of your love

The Meeting
Jon Anderson, Bill Bruford, Rick Wakeman, Steve Howe
Released 1989, Track 5, Anderson Bruford Wakeman Howe

At the moment, there are an absolutely astounding number of things going wrong, all of them extraordinarily petty, and most of them totally beyond my means (at present) to resolve. I had Crys for company for several hours this evening, and managed to recharge a bit... and on her departure I dove bodily back into RO. As the last five hours have evolved, my music tastes have shifted from Bolt Thrower -> Megadeth -> Iron Maiden -> Kiss -> Savatage -> Emerson, Lake, and Palmer -> Anderson Bruford Wakeman Howe... which is what's playing presently. I'm hoping that the fairly gradual mellowing will mean halfway decent dreams tonight; I got vivisected twice in last night's dreamspace. Nothing like being carved up to redefine 'pain', is there.

It's maddening to have so much breaking/not cooperating/balking that's not fixable... particularly when it's all stupid little stuff that just seems so damnably petty and unnecessary. I've always been a fairly straightforward person, unafraid of 'hands on' solutions if it would make the process faster or more efficient. But these are things like bureaucracy, greed, and sheer stupidity... the kind of stupidity that a 2x4 applied lovingly to some desk flier's temple would only compound. So I stew over it. Fret over it. And then fall flat on my face when the elevated stress levels redline my pain and stop me in my tracks. Hence the burying of myself in a 'kill lots of monsters and take their stuff' kind of game. It's... oddly soothing. But that may be something that's not a commonplace attitude. *shrugs* Not my call.

At any rate, such is why I've been almost totally silent. My presence in the few MU*'s I still frequent has been nonexistant, my IM presence not much better. I spent chunks of yesterday sitting in my closet with the GBA and FFTA. No phone, no worries. I'm becoming an eHermit.... unless Micro$oft has patented that, now, as well.

Comments

Re: Could be worse...

[elisabeth.livejournal.com]

Heh. Teakbois, the track everyone loathes. Well, mostly. It's got three sections... section 1 sucks, then it bridges into the 'Bobby Dred and the Cool Running' piece (which I actually do like. so much for taste), and then it drops into something jarringly different and returns to much suckage. Ah well.

*lets herself be dragged off for dancing, revealing to her bunsib that however enthusiastic they may be, a cabbit's idea of dancing involves lots of hopping up and down and the brandishing of carrots*

Wow. Now there's some unintentional innuendo. :p

let us be together, let's pretend that we
are free, let's all be where the angels
find us, we all have the key
shall we seal the truth of life
shall we light the heavens
we're so good at finding pleasure
as to what we are, and how we fit
together

Let's Pretend
Jon Anderson, Bill Bruford, Rick Wakeman, Steve Howe
Released 1989, Track 9, Anderson Bruford Wakeman Howe

*kiss*

Re: Could be worse...

[trajan-lj.livejournal.com]

OH BULL! there was no WAY that was an Unintentional Innuendo! You cabbit's are always sluttish looking for a good rub and bundle of carrots apparently!

^giggles teasingly^

best watch out, Bunny is sort of slick all in latex...hard to hold on to... go for the boobies.. its something to grab! ^winks^