The Black Cat by Edgar Allan Poe

FOR the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit

belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own
evidence. Yet, mad am I not - and very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day I
would unburthen my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world, plainly, succinctly,
and without comment, a series of mere household events. In their consequences, these events have
terrified - have tortured - have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to expound them. To me, they
have presented little but Horror - to many they will seem less terrible than barroques. Hereafter,
perhaps, some intellect may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the common-place - some
intellect more calm, more logical, and far less excitable than my own, which will perceive, in the
circumstances I detail with awe, nothing more than an ordinary succession of very natural causes
and effects.
 

From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanity of my disposition. My tenderness of
heart was even so conspicuous as to make me the jest of my companions. I was especially fond of
animals, and was indulged by my parents with a great variety of pets. With these I spent most of my
time, and never was so happy as when feeding and caressing them. This peculiarity of character
grew with my growth, and in my manhood, I derived from it one of my principal sources of
pleasure. To those who have cherished an affection for a faithful and sagacious dog, I need hardly
be at the trouble of explaining the nature or the intensity of the gratification thus derivable. There is
something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of
him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man .
 

I married early, and was happy to find in my wife a disposition not uncongenial with my own.
Observing my partiality for domestic pets, she lost no opportunity of procuring those of the most
agreeable kind. We had birds, gold-fish, a fine dog, rabbits, a small monkey, and a cat .
 

This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal, entirely black, and sagacious to an
astonishing degree. In speaking of his intelligence, my wife, who at heart was not a little tinctured
with superstition, made frequent allusion to the ancient popular notion, which regarded all black
cats as witches in disguise. Not that she was ever serious upon this point - and I mention the matter
at all for no better reason than that it happens, just now, to be remembered.
 

Pluto - this was the cat's name - was my favorite pet and playmate. I alone fed him, and he attended
me wherever I went about the house. It was even with difficulty that I could prevent him from
following me through the streets.
 

Our friendship lasted, in this manner, for several years, during which my general temperament and
character - through the instrumentality of the Fiend Intemperance - had (I blush to confess it)
experienced a radical alteration for the worse. I grew, day by day, more moody, more irritable, more
regardless of the feelings of others. I suffered myself to use intemperate language to my wife. At
length, I even offered her personal violence. My pets, of course, were made to feel the change in my
disposition. I not only neglected, but ill-used them. For Pluto, however, I still retained sufficient
regard to restrain me from maltreating him, as I made no scruple of maltreating the rabbits, the
monkey, or even the dog, when by accident, or through affection, they came in my way. But my
disease grew upon me - for what disease is like Alcohol! - and at length even Pluto, who was now
becoming old, and consequently somewhat peevish - even Pluto began to experience the effects of
my ill temper.
 

One night, returning home, much intoxicated, from one of my haunts about town, I fancied that the
cat avoided my presence. I seized him; when, in his fright at my violence, he inflicted a slight
wound upon my hand with his teeth. The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no
longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body and a more than fiendish
malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my frame. I took from my waistcoat-pocket a penknife,
opened it, grasped the poor beast by the throat, and deliberately cut one of its eyes from the
socket! I blush, I burn, I shudder, while I pen the damnable atrocity.
 

When reason returned with the morning - when I had slept off the fumes of the night's debauch - I
experienced a sentiment half of horror, half of remorse, for the crime of which I had been guilty; but
it was, at best, a feeble and equivocal feeling, and the soul remained untouched. I again plunged into
excess, and soon drowned in wine all memory of the deed.
 

In the meantime the cat slowly recovered. The socket of the lost eye presented, it is true, a frightful
appearance, but he no longer appeared to suffer any pain. He went about the house as usual, but, as
might be expected, fled in extreme terror at my approach. I had so much of my old heart left, as to
be at first grieved by this evident dislike on the part of a creature which had once so loved me. But
this feeling soon gave place to irritation. And then came, as if to my final and irrevocable
overthrow, the spirit of PERVERSENESS. Of this spirit philosophy takes no account. Yet I am not
more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the
human heart - one of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the
character of Man. Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a silly action,
for no other reason than because he knows he should not? Have we not a perpetual inclination, in
the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which is Law , merely because we understand it to be
such? This spirit of perverseness, I say, came to my final overthrow. It was this unfathomable
longing of the soul to vex itself - to offer violence to its own nature - to do wrong for the wrong's
sake only - that urged me to continue and finally to consummate the injury I had inflicted upon the
unoffending brute. One morning, in cool blood, I slipped a noose about its neck and hung it to the
limb of a tree; - hung it with the tears streaming from my eyes, and with the bitterest remorse at my
heart; - hung it because I knew that it had loved me, and because I felt it had given me no reason of
offence; - hung it because I knew that in so doing I was committing a sin - a deadly sin that would
so jeopardize my immortal soul as to place it - if such a thing wore possible - even beyond the reach
of the infinite mercy of the Most Merciful and Most Terrible God.
 

On the night of the day on which this cruel deed was done, I was aroused from sleep by the cry of
fire. The curtains of my bed were in flames. The whole house was blazing. It was with great
difficulty that my wife, a servant, and myself, made our escape from the conflagration. The
destruction was complete. My entire worldly wealth was swallowed up, and I resigned myself
thenceforward to despair.
 

I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster
and the atrocity. But I am detailing a chain of facts - and wish not to leave even a possible link
imperfect. On the day succeeding the fire, I visited the ruins. The walls, with one exception, had
fallen in. This exception was found in a compartment wall, not very thick, which stood about the
middle of the house, and against which had rested the head of my bed. The plastering had here, in
great measure, resisted the action of the fire - a fact which I attributed to its having been recently
spread. About this wall a dense crowd were collected, and many persons seemed to be examining a
particular portion of it with very minute and eager attention. The words "strange!" "singular!" and
other similar expressions, excited my curiosity. I approached and saw, as if graven in bas relief upon
the white surface, the figure of a gigantic cat. The impression was given with an accuracy truly
marvellous. There was a rope about the animal's neck.
 

When I first beheld this apparition - for I could scarcely regard it as less - my wonder and my terror
were extreme. But at length reflection came to my aid. The cat, I remembered, had been hung in a
garden adjacent to the house. Upon the alarm of fire, this garden had been immediately filled by the
crowd - by some one of whom the animal must have been cut from the tree and thrown, through an
open window, into my chamber. This had probably been done with the view of arousing me from
sleep. The falling of other walls had compressed the victim of my cruelty into the substance of the
freshly-spread plaster; the lime of which, with the flames, and the ammonia from the carcass, had
then accomplished the portraiture as I saw it.
 

Although I thus readily accounted to my reason, if not altogether to my conscience, for the startling
fact just detailed, it did not the less fail to make a deep impression upon my fancy. For months I
could not rid myself of the phantasm of the cat; and, during this period, there came back into my
spirit a half-sentiment that seemed, but was not, remorse. I went so far as to regret the loss of the
animal, and to look about me, among the vile haunts which I now habitually frequented, for another
pet of the same species, and of somewhat similar appearance, with which to supply its place.
 

One night as I sat, half stupified, in a den of more than infamy, my attention was suddenly drawn to
some black object, reposing upon the head of one of the immense hogsheads of Gin, or of Rum,
which constituted the chief furniture of the apartment. I had been looking steadily at the top of this
hogshead for some minutes, and what now caused me surprise was the fact that I had not sooner
perceived the object thereupon. I approached it, and touched it with my hand. It was a black cat - a
very large one - fully as large as Pluto, and closely resembling him in every respect but one. Pluto
had not a white hair upon any portion of his body; but this cat had a large, although indefinite
splotch of white, covering nearly the whole region of the breast. Upon my touching him, he
immediately arose, purred loudly, rubbed against my hand, and appeared delighted with my notice.
 

This, then, was the very creature of which I was in search. I at once offered to purchase it of the
landlord; but this person made no claim to it - knew nothing of it - had never seen it before.
I continued my caresses, and, when I prepared to go home, the animal evinced a disposition to
accompany me. I permitted it to do so; occasionally stooping and patting it as I proceeded. When it
reached the house it domesticated itself at once, and became immediately a great favorite with my
wife.
 

For my own part, I soon found a dislike to it arising within me. This was just the reverse of what I
had anticipated; but - I know not how or why it was - its evident fondness for myself rather
disgusted and annoyed. By slow degrees, these feelings of disgust and annoyance rose into the
bitterness of hatred. I avoided the creature; a certain sense of shame, and the remembrance of my
former deed of cruelty, preventing me from physically abusing it. I did not, for some weeks, strike,
or otherwise violently ill use it; but gradually - very gradually - I came to look upon it with
unutterable loathing, and to flee silently from its odious presence, as from the breath of a pestilence.
 

What added, no doubt, to my hatred of the beast, was the discovery, on the morning after I brought
it home, that, like Pluto, it also had been deprived of one of its eyes. This circumstance, however,
only endeared it to my wife, who, as I have already said, possessed, in a high degree, that humanity
of feeling which had once been my distinguishing trait, and the source of many of my simplest and
purest pleasures.
 

With my aversion to this cat, however, its partiality for myself seemed to increase. It followed my
footsteps with a pertinacity which it would be difficult to make the reader comprehend. Whenever I
sat, it would crouch beneath my chair, or spring upon my knees, covering me with its loathsome
caresses. If I arose to walk it would get between my feet and thus nearly throw me down, or,
fastening its long and sharp claws in my dress, clamber, in this manner, to my breast. At such times,
although I longed to destroy it with a blow, I was yet withheld from so doing, partly by a memory of
my former crime, but chiefly - let me confess it at once - by absolute dread of the beast.
 

This dread was not exactly a dread of physical evil - and yet I should be at a loss how otherwise to
define it. I am almost ashamed to own - yes, even in this felon's cell, I am almost ashamed to own -
that the terror and horror with which the animal inspired me, had been heightened by one of the
merest chimaeras it would be possible to conceive. My wife had called my attention, more than
once, to the character of the mark of white hair, of which I have spoken, and which constituted the
sole visible difference between the strange beast and the one I had destroyed. The reader will
remember that this mark, although large, had been originally very indefinite; but, by slow degrees -
degrees nearly imperceptible, and which for a long time my Reason struggled to reject as fanciful -
it had, at length, assumed a rigorous distinctness of outline. It was now the representation of an
object that I shudder to name - and for this, above all, I loathed, and dreaded, and would have rid
myself of the monster had I dared - it was now, I say, the image of a hideous - of a ghastly thing - of
the GALLOWS ! - oh, mournful and terrible engine of Horror and of Crime - of Agony and of
Death !
 

And now was I indeed wretched beyond the wretchedness of mere Humanity. And a brute beast -
whose fellow I had contemptuously destroyed - a brute beast to work out for me - for me a man,
fashioned in the image of the High God - so much of insufferable wo! Alas! neither by day nor by
night knew I the blessing of Rest any more! During the former the creature left me no moment
alone; and, in the latter, I started, hourly, from dreams of unutterable fear, to find the hot breath of
the thing upon my face, and its vast weight - an incarnate Night-Mare that I had no power to shake
off - incumbent eternally upon my heart !
 

Beneath the pressure of torments such as these, the feeble remnant of the good within me
succumbed. Evil thoughts became my sole intimates - the darkest and most evil of thoughts. The
moodiness of my usual temper increased to hatred of all things and of all mankind; while, from the
sudden, frequent, and ungovernable outbursts of a fury to which I now blindly abandoned myself,
my uncomplaining wife, alas! was the most usual and the most patient of sufferers.
 

One day she accompanied me, upon some household errand, into the cellar of the old building
which our poverty compelled us to inhabit. The cat followed me down the steep stairs, and, nearly
throwing me headlong, exasperated me to madness. Uplifting an axe, and forgetting, in my wrath,
the childish dread which had hitherto stayed my hand, I aimed a blow at the animal which, of
course, would have proved instantly fatal had it descended as I wished. But this blow was arrested
by the hand of my wife. Goaded, by the interference, into a rage more than demoniacal, I withdrew
my arm from her grasp and buried the axe in her brain. She fell dead upon the spot, without a groan.
 

This hideous murder accomplished, I set myself forthwith, and with entire deliberation, to the task
of concealing the body. I knew that I could not remove it from the house, either by day or by night,
without the risk of being observed by the neighbors. Many projects entered my mind. At one period
I thought of cutting the corpse into minute fragments, and destroying them by fire. At another, I
resolved to dig a grave for it in the floor of the cellar. Again, I deliberated about casting it in the
well in the yard - about packing it in a box, as if merchandize, with the usual arrangements, and so
getting a porter to take it from the house. Finally I hit upon what I considered a far better expedient
than either of these. I determined to wall it up in the cellar - as the monks of the middle ages are
recorded to have walled up their victims.
 

For a purpose such as this the cellar was well adapted. Its walls were loosely constructed, and had
lately been plastered throughout with a rough plaster, which the dampness of the atmosphere had
prevented from hardening. Moreover, in one of the walls was a projection, caused by a false
chimney, or fireplace, that had been filled up, and made to resemble the red of the cellar. I made no
doubt that I could readily displace the bricks at this point, insert the corpse, and wall the whole up as
before, so that no eye could detect any thing suspicious. And in this calculation I was not deceived.
 

By means of a crow-bar I easily dislodged the bricks, and, having carefully deposited the body
against the inner wall, I propped it in that position, while, with little trouble, I re-laid the whole
structure as it originally stood. Having procured mortar, sand, and hair, with every possible
precaution, I prepared a plaster which could not be distinguished from the old, and with this I very
carefully went over the new brickwork. When I had finished, I felt satisfied that all was right. The
wall did not present the slightest appearance of having been disturbed. The rubbish on the floor was
picked up with the minutest care. I looked around triumphantly, and said to myself - "Here at least,
then, my labor has not been in vain."
 

My next step was to look for the beast which had been the cause of so much wretchedness; for I
had, at length, firmly resolved to put it to death. Had I been able to meet with it, at the moment,
there could have been no doubt of its fate; but it appeared that the crafty animal had been alarmed at
the violence of my previous anger, and forebore to present itself in my present mood. It is
impossible to describe, or to imagine, the deep, the blissful sense of relief which the absence of the
detested creature occasioned in my bosom. It did not make its appearance during the night - and thus
for one night at least, since its introduction into the house, I soundly and tranquilly slept; aye, slept
even with the burden of murder upon my soul!
 

The second and the third day passed, and still my tormentor came not. Once again I breathed as a
freeman. The monster, in terror, had fled the premises forever! I should behold it no more! My
happiness was supreme! The guilt of my dark deed disturbed me but little. Some few inquiries had
been made, but these had been readily answered. Even a search had been instituted - but of course
nothing was to be discovered. I looked upon my future felicity as secured.
 

Upon the fourth day of the assassination, a party of the police came, very unexpectedly, into the
house, and proceeded again to make rigorous investigation of the premises. Secure, however, in the
inscrutability of my place of concealment, I felt no embarrassment whatever. The officers bade me
accompany them in their search. They left no nook or corner unexplored. At length, for the third or
fourth time, they descended into the cellar. I quivered not in a muscle. My heart beat calmly as that
of one who slumbers in innocence. I walked the cellar from end to end. I folded my arms upon my
bosom, and roamed easily to and fro. The police were thoroughly satisfied and prepared to depart.
 

The glee at my heart was too strong to be restrained. I burned to say if but one word, by way of
triumph, and to render doubly sure their assurance of my guiltlessness.
"Gentlemen," I said at last, as the party ascended the steps, "I delight to have allayed your
suspicions. I wish you all health, and a little more courtesy. By the bye, gentlemen, this - this is a
very well constructed house." [In the rabid desire to say something easily, I scarcely knew what I
uttered at all.] - "I may say an excellently well constructed house. These walls are you going,
gentlemen? - these walls are solidly put together;" and here, through the mere phrenzy of bravado, I
rapped heavily, with a cane which I held in my hand, upon that very portion of the brick-work
behind which stood the corpse of the wife of my bosom.
 

But may God shield and deliver me from the fangs of the Arch-Fiend ! No sooner had the
reverberation of my blows sunk into silence, than I was answered by a voice from within the tomb! -
by a cry, at first muffled and broken, like the sobbing of a child, and then quickly swelling into one
long, loud, and continuous scream, utterly anomalous and inhuman - a howl - a wailing shriek, half
of horror and half of triumph, such as might have arisen only out of hell, conjointly from the throats
of the dammed in their agony and of the demons that exult in the damnation.
 

Of my own thoughts it is folly to speak. Swooning, I staggered to the opposite wall. For one instant
the party upon the stairs remained motionless, through extremity of terror and of awe. In the next, a
dozen stout arms were toiling at the wall. It fell bodily. The corpse, already greatly decayed and
clotted with gore, stood erect before the eyes of the spectators. Upon its head, with red extended
mouth and solitary eye of fire, sat the hideous beast whose craft had seduced me into murder, and
whose informing voice had consigned me to the hangman. I had walled the monster up within the
tomb!

The bittersweet symphony

Cause it's a bittersweet symphony, this life
Try to make ends meet
You're a slave to money then you die
I'll take you down the only road I've ever been down
You know the one that takes you to the places
where all the veins meet yeah,

No change, I can change
I can change, I can change
But I'm here in my mold
I am here in my mold
But I'm a million different people
from one day to the next
I can't change my mold
No, no, no, no, no

Well I never pray
But tonight I'm on my knees yeah
I need to hear some sounds that recognize the pain in me, yeah
I let the melody shine, let it cleanse my mind, I feel free now
But the airways are clean and there's nobody singing to me now

No change, I can change
I can change, I can change
But I'm here in my mold
I am here in my mold
And I'm a million different people
from one day to the next
I can't change my mold
No, no, no, no, no
I can't change
I can't change

'Cause it's a bittersweet symphony, this life
Try to make ends meet
Try to find some money then you die
I'll take you down the only road I've ever been down
You know the one that takes you to the places
where all the things meet yeah

You know I can change, I can change
I can change, I can change
But I'm here in my mold
I am here in my mold
And I'm a million different people
from one day to the next
I can't change my mold
No, no, no, no, no

I can't change my mold
no, no, no, no, no,
I can't change
Can't change my body,
no, no, no

I'll take you down the only road I've ever been down
I'll take you down the only road I've ever been down
Been down
Ever been down
Ever been down
Ever been down
Ever been down
Have you ever been down?
Have you've ever been down?

Although the song's lyrics were written by Verve vocalist Richard Ashcroft, it has been credited to Keith Richards and Mick Jagger after charges by the original copyright owners that the song was plagiarized from the Andrew Oldham Orchestra recording of The Rolling Stones' 1965 song "The Last Time".

The free little pigs

Once upon a time three pigs: Tom, Mee, Flu. They were living sick.

One day a stupid wolf went the pigs house. He was hungry.But, when he saw the pigs, he was afraid and ran away.

Help!!! Help!!!

And the wolf ran soo much. And he thought.

If I were hungry, I wouldn't have gone there to ask the Pizza Place's number.

After the woulf went away, a little pig said: that wolf doesn't watch TV.

Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me;
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we,
Of many far wiser than we;
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Tsuru's land

It is said that this bird is a symbol of longevity.

The figure of Tsuru (crane) is one of the most popular origami and also considered the most perfect folding because its basic form is the basis for other paper figures from animals to plants.

A long time ago people used to hang these birds of paper on the ceiling to entertain the children, especially babies who could not walk. The paper cranes were also offered in temples and altars, along with the prayer for protection. It is believed that originally, they had only a decorative function, and only later were associated with the prayers, luck and fortunes.

Nowadays in Japan, New Year's celebrations, marriage, birth in festive celebrations in general, the figure of the Tsuru is present in the decoration or packaging gift symbolizing health and fortune.

When a person is sick, she offers a thousand cranes (senbazuru) so that it is reinstated as soon as possible. By doubling each figure, people place in it all faith and hope in the recovery of the patient. The Peace Monument in Hiroshima, where the atomic bomb fell, several sets of a thousand cranes, from all parts of Japan are made by school students at last by a group of people who banded together to ask one thing: peace world. To prepare these thousand cranes need unity, faith and effort of many people, thus forming a chain of positive thinking.

I'll go... I'll go back another station

Don't ask me to be consistent, because I am. Again the wind came and it found my being.

Increasingly whole, increasingly alone. It will be a trend? It will be a choice? Or the destiny?

Everything points to a new way, wihich I want. And everything leads me to think I spent my life idealizing a lot nothing. And nothing, I believe, prepared my soul for everything, or almost everything.

I'll go... I know I'll come back different. At another station.

Time

What time?

If the time is not more the same
and I did not learn to count
these anxious seconds
Almost a century has passed
while I used to write
and what I thought
I do not think more
I realize only now
the weather outside
is bluer than 
inside

ABSTRACT

Orkut consists of a public place of discontinuities, where intimacy is unveiled through the subjects‟ narratives. To narrate knowing that one is being watched enacts a game of “displaying” and “hiding” which, somehow, rules and constitutes the social relations of such virtual place. When narrating their experiences, the subjects enact discourses that, beyond their own voices, bring the voices of the others. There is an entanglement of memories, from where one selects and organizes, on time and space, the hiper-textuality of one‟s own writing. It is possible to “walk” along such “Blue City” and to identify the rituals of contemporaneity which have started to settle into our society: new ways of narrating death, new ways of experimenting mourning, and new ways of rendering public that which, for a long time, had been confined to the private domain. In the present research, I attempt to understand how teenagers, users of Orkut, are dealing with life and death, with the ambivalent loneliness that springs from a set of virtual relations which might shorten some distances and make rifts between others. I analyze discourses of Brazilian youngsters who committed suicide and left, along the public spaces of Orkut, the virtual traces of a foretold, uttered death.

Keywords: Suicide, Internet, Orkut, Discourse Analysis

Have you ever seen this movie?

 From http://leloveimage.blogspot.com

The song, the band

I love the songs from this album. Especially, "Lucky man".  

Lucky man

Happiness 

More or less
It's just a change in me
Something in my liberty
Oh my, my
Happiness
Coming and going
I watch you look at me
Watch my fever growing
I know just where I am

But how many corners do I have to turn?
How many times do I have to learn?
All the love I have is in my mind?

Well, I'm a lucky man
With fire in my hands

Happiness
Something in my own place
I'm standing naked
Smiling, I feel no disgrace
With who I am

Happiness
Coming and going
I watch you look at me
Watch my fever growing
I know just who I am

But how many corners do I have to turn?
How many times do I have to learn?
All the love I have is in my mind?

I hope you understand
I hope you understand

Gotta love that'll never die

Happiness
More or less
It's just a change in me
Something in my liberty
Happiness
Coming and going
I watch you look at me
Watch my fever growing
I know
Oh my mind
Oh my mind
Oh my mind
Oh my mind

Gotta love that'll never die
Gotta love that'll never die
No, no
I'm a lucky man

It's just a change in me
Something in my liberty
It's just a change in me
Something in my liberty
It's just a change in me
Something in my liberty
Oh my mind
Oh my mind
It's just a change in me
Something in my liberty
Oh my mind
Oh my mind

Richard Ashcroft

Crazy and Saints

I choose my friends

not by their skin or other archetype

but by the pupil.

They have to have questioning

shine and unsetted tone.

I'm not interested in the good spirits

or the ones with bad habits.

I'll stick with the ones

that are made of me being

From them,

I don't want an answer,

I want to be reviewed

I want them to bring me doubts

and fears and to tolerate

the worst of me.

But that only being crazy

I want saints,

so they dount doubt differences

and ask for forgiveness for injustices.

I choose my friends

for their clean face

and their soul exposed

I don't just want a man or a skirt

I also want his greatest happiness.

A friend that doesn't laugh together

doesn´t know how to cry together.

All my friends are like that,

half foolish, half serious.

I don't want forseen

laughter or cries full of pity.

I want serious friends,

those that make reality

their fonutain of knowledge,

but that fight

to keep fantasy alive.

I don't want adult

or boring friends.

I want half kids

and half elderly

Kids, so they don't forget the value

of the wind blowing

on their faces and elderly people

so they're never in a hurry.

I have friends to know who I am.

Then seeing them as clowns and serious,

crazy and saints,

young and old,

I will never forget that "normalcy"

is a steril and imbecil illusion.

Oscar Wilde

Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

"Road at Chantilly" by Paul Cézanne 

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black

Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:
two roads diverged in a wood, and I
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. 

Robert Lee Frost (March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963) was an American poet. He is highly regarded for his realistic depictions of rural life and his command of American colloquial speech. His work frequently employed settings from rural life in New England in the early twentieth century, using them to examine complex social and philosophical themes.