Legend tells of three sages who successfully sought out Old Damascus. As a reward for all the grief and toil they had endured during the long journey, each was granted a gift of his choosing. Being sages, it was natural that they valued knowledge above all else - However, they also understood the perils and the pains which followed every step taken towards a deeper comprehension of the universe. And so it was that – sensibly – none of them wished to be granted infinite knowledge, but rather they decided to divide such wisdom in three equal measures, which they agreed to bear separately. The first sage would be granted the answers to all questions starting in “What”; the second sage would guard the answers to every inquiry beginning in “Why”, and the third sage – in his turn – would take for him all the answers to questions phrased with “When”. Thus each of them became immeasurably wise, and together they held the answers to all the questions that may be uttered by mortal lips.

"I don't think we did go blind. I think we are blind, Blind but seeing,
Blind people who can see, but do not see."

"The moral conscience that so many thoughtless people have offended against and many more have rejected, is something that exists and has always existed. It was not an invention of the philosophers of the Quartenary, when the soul was little more than a muddled proposition. With the passing of time, as well as with social evolution and genetic exchange, we ended up putting our consciences in the colour of blood and in the salt of tears, and, as if that were not enough, we made our eyes into a kind of mirror turned inwards, with the result that they often show without reserve what we are verbally trying to deny. Add to this general observation the particular circumstance that, in simple spirits, the remorse caused by committing some evil act often becomes confused with ancestral fears of every kind, and the result will be that the punishment of the prevaricator ends up being, without mercy or pity, twice what he deserved."

D.H. Lawrence wrote "Nothing is more fatal than the disaster of too much love", which is ominous and terrible; but he also wrote "I am in love - and, my God, it is the greatest thing that can happen to a man. I tell you, find a woman you can fall in love with. Do it. Let yourself fall in love. If you have not done so already, you are wasting your life". See? You can't trust these people.

Nice drawings.

You can find more homophones here.
But those are not fun.
THIS is!

Other FINE examples of how to employ your vocal apparatus to entertain people:

The Master and His Music
Holiday Song
Summer Concert

Kids These Days

It's important to have an objective in life.

After reading the works of Isaac Asimov, a curious thought occurred to me: that perhaps the most remarkable feature of humanity – and what makes our minds viable in the first place – is our uncanny, innate ability to withstand self-contradiction; our capacity to endure (if not indefinitely, at least for a reasonable amount of time) the enormous tension produced by the coexistence of thoughts, ideas and urges that are diametrically opposed and utterly irreconcilable. The robotic mind could never operate and survive encumbered by such incompatibilities. We do it on a daily basis! – and perhaps that is what Lovecraft had in mind when he wrote "The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents".

Explaining friendship is like explaining love. It is ultimately pointless, because each man's continued experience (both in love and friendship) segregates him from the rest of the world – and thus no fixed definition, no single poem and no passage alone can hope to reach every man’s heart with equal strength, nor sing the tune that bears the same harmony of truth to all who hear. Therefore, tread with care if you presume to write or quote another’s treaty on love and friendship, for one man’s vision does not always lend its wings to another man – and when it does, he who borrowed them may not soar as high as their original owner. It is a bit sad, perhaps, but it is also comforting that we are, at some depth, inescapably different.

It then follows that every person’s take on friendship is essentially individual. Because of this, we often find ourselves picking snippets of outside wisdom whereas the colours of the entire opus don’t accurately match those in which we dress and live. Why, then? Why do we seek to make ourselves heard through the words of a stranger – who might be not as wise as we imagine – instead of striving to produce the message ourselves that calls for conveyance? It is perhaps the lure of poetry, or the fear of sounding banal and ordinary in respect to something that is anything but banal and ordinary.

REVENGE is a kind of wild justice; which the more man's nature runs to, the more ought law to weed it out. For as for the first wrong, it doth but offend the law; but the revenge of that wrong pulleth the law out of office. Certainly, in taking revenge, a man is but even with his enemy; but in passing it over, he is superior; for it is a prince's part to pardon. And Salomon, I am sure, saith, It is the glory of a man to pass by an offence.

That which is past is gone, and irrevocable; and wise men have enough to do with things present and to come: therefore they do but trifle with themselves, that labour in past matters.

There is no man doth a wrong for the wrong's sake; but thereby to purchase himself profit, or pleasure, or honour, or the like. There why should I be angry with a man for loving himself better than me? And if any man should do wrong merely out of ill nature, why, yet it is but like the thorn or briar, which prick and scratch, because they can do no other.

The most tolerable sort of revenge is for those wrongs which there is no law or remedy; but then let a man take heed the revenge be such as there is no law to punish; else a man's enemy is still beforehand, and it is two for one.

Some, when they take revenge, are desirous the party should know whence it cometh: this is the more generous. For the delight seemeth to be not so much in doing the hurt as in making the party repent: but base and crafty cowards are like the arrow that flieth in the dark.

Cosmus, Duke of Florence, had a desperate saying against perfidious or neglecting friends, as if those wrongs were unpardonable: You shall read (saith he) that we are commanded to forgive our friends. But yet the spirit of Job was in a better tune: Shall we (saith he) take good at God's hands, and not be content to take evil also? And so of friends in a proportion.

This is certain, that a man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green, which otherwise would heal and do well. (...) vindictive persons live the life of witches; who as they are mischievous, so end they unfortunate.

Handiwork 2

Combine both the watermelon and grape-flavored schnapps, Bacardi limon, orange juice and pineapple juice in a beaker. Throw in the Flunitrazepam and, using a pH meter (with NaOH solution 0,1M drip), adjust the pH until it stabilizes at 7,4. Serve in old-fashioned glasses or 10cc intravenous shots.

Laugh, and the world laughs with you! (...)
Sing, and the hills will answer! (...)

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A Nameless Tale Episode
"Ardras Trilence"

[Setting: Einlaril Woods, border of the forest kingdom of Âmien. War camp, a martial settlement established by the forces of the Southern Elven King under the command of Arch-Mage General Ardras Trilence. Celesta Míniel, princess to the throne of Âmien, compulsorily joins a party of foreign military strategists as they conclude plans for the upcoming mobilization against the expansionist kingdom of Verrogar, which is said to be ruled by a warlock and has been waging a centenary war on neighbouring nations.]

Celesta was quiet in her seat at the table of generals. She had that look bruised children make when they are punished for another child’s mischief, a look of helplessness and desolation. Truthfully, that was her condition – deprived of strength, forced into the role of powerless witness. Then Ardras entered the tent and a deadly silence filled the room.

Conversations died as everyone stood, for Ardras Trilence answered directly to the King, thus making him general of generals, and everything about him befitted his position. His presence inspired both reverence and apprehension in equal measures: He was one of the Four Arch-Mages, who at this point had already established a reputation for eccentricity. Indeed, if half of the recent stories were true, deeming the Arch-Mages “eccentric” was a crass understatement, a wisely tactful way to address the downright bizarreness surrounding their beings.

“Generals, leave this room at once”, spoke Ardras unemotionally, his instruction promptly and quietly obeyed. Only Celesta remained, and in her eye a spark of defiance flickered.

“You may sit, milady”, he said politely, but the princess stood motionless.
“Are the accommodations to your liking?”, he proceeded, taking no notice of her rebellious attitude, “Would you care for food, beverages? Amusement?”

“I tremble at the thought of what you may find amusing, if there is such a thing in this world besides licking your king’s boots, witless pawn!”, spat Celesta, viciously. Her insults, however, produced no effect on her interlocutor, who remained unruffled.

With irksome composure, he walked to one end of the table and took a seat, helping himself to a calyx of brownish-red wine. He looked neither tired nor lively, neither amused nor troubled. Ardras never smiled, and apparently his countenance was soil equally infertile for every other type of emotion. If anything, he did on occasion wear a vaguely intrigued look that could stand for a vestige of puzzlement. Celesta thought he was wearing that look right then.

“I must say, it is difficult to comprehend your recalcitrance”, said Ardras firmly, between sips of his drink, “After all, are we not aligned against a mutual enemy? Your queenship lies just around the corner, separated from you merely by your continued refusal to take it and urge your forces to join our common struggle.”

“My continued refusal, you mean, to submit my will to the rising empire whose self-proclaimed ruler you represent?”, she replied bitterly.

“Our forefathers were kin. Many centuries ago, our peoples served the same cause, marched under the same flag, lived and died together. T’was but for a fateful series of cataclysmic events that we were segregated; thus you should see that reinstating that ancient order serves and benefits our entire race. We shall be whole again.”

“As long as your king is on the throne, no doubt”, she retorted disdainfully.

Ardras drew a deep breath. Celesta’s obstinate insolence did nothing to alter his (un)emotional state, but he knew where this was going and the prospect bored him greatly.

“His lineage is pure, as are his intentions. You needn’t feel threatened. If anything, your rule will be strengthened, guaranteed by this alliance. The King hoped you would understand that.”

“You speak as if the realm on which soil you stand is deprived of a monarch, and flatter me with promises of power while my brother – the true sovereign of Âmien – lies sick on his bed.”

“One has to be practical in times of change, princess. Were that we could do something to vanquish your brother’s ailment, but alas! His is an unknown disease that even the best of our healers haven’t been able to cure. The unpleasant truth is upon us, that he may not live to see the end of this war. Furthermore, is he not currently unable to carry out his duty as ruler of Âmien? Therefore, it is right and necessary that you make the appropriate choices in his stead. It is your responsibility.”

“Stay your tongue! Be quiet!”, yelled Celesta, tearful, “My brother isn’t dead and I will not usurp his throne for you! Nor will I usher my people to die for your cause while your cowardly king is comfortably burrowed in the safety of his fortress!”

An exasperated Celesta felt that she might be able to provoke Ardras by insulting his liege. She just wanted to hurt him, the insufferable bastard! Nevertheless, her efforts turned once more fruitless, and weariness started weighting on her spirit.

Ardras seemed to realize that, for he shifted his tactics: Resting the calyx on the table, he rised, approaching the princess slow and cautiously, as one approaches a wild animal that must not be startled. His eyes were grey (“like rocks”, she thought) and his voice was deep and grave, almost mournful.

“You do not comprehend”, he uttered in a low tone, “There shall be but few losses amongst your subjects. However, they must fight alongside the King’s forces. It is necessary that they feel involved in this conflict, so that your people shares victory with us when the war is over. That sense of triumph will pave the road to our unification.”

Celesta stared at Ardras, her jaw dropped in utter disbelief.

“You know not what we are capable of, princess”, he continued, “You know not what I am capable of. We will put an end to this menace for you, and crush the evil that for too long has been casting its shadow on the place you call home. In return, all that is asked is goodwill. It is a most generous offer.”

“Is it, Ardras?”, whispered Celesta, perplexity quickly giving way to fear, “Is it an offer at all? Or is it that the only reason I still live and breathe is so that I can shepherd my people into submission for your master? If you hold indeed the power that you now openly boast, what keeps you from obliterating the forces of Âmien and annexing it for your beloved king, already? Would that not be a less convoluted path to the end you seek?”

For the very first time, then, Celesta reckoned Ardras’ temper started to crack, for his brow twitched and a distant but noticeable flame burned in the depths of his eyes.

“What you say is nonsense! That is not the way we are supposed to…”

But he was interrupted, as a panicked clamor penetrated the tent from the outside. Both general and princess made quickly for the exit, and what they saw stole Celesta's breath.

"Quem teve a idéia de cortar o tempo em fatias,
a que se deu o nome de ano,
foi um indivíduo genial.
Industrializou a esperança,
fazendo-a funcionar no limite da exaustão.
Doze meses dão para qualquer ser humano se cansar
e entregar os pontos.
Aí entra o milagre da renovação
e tudo começa outra vez,
com outro número e outra vontade de acreditar
que daqui pra diante vai ser diferente"

(Carlos Drummond de Andrade)

Cold sparks dance wildly within the vacant halls of her heart. Oh, hate. Bitter, clean, inextricable loathing! Irianna stands inside her ship’s cabin and fumbles in her mind for memories that aren’t tinged in hues of anger and resentment. If she finds them, they will probably seem unfamiliar, like memories of someone whom she knew in a past that now feels ancient. She doesn’t.

A chilly breeze brushes Irianna’s bone-white locks. Thoughts are murky with blood, bloody as rain on sacrificial altars, hungry like a river flooding the battlefield to drown the wounded, swaying their bodies with joyless grace. And there's hate! – When she thinks of what was done to her, of the existence she once had, the dreams she once nurtured, the love she once shared – All gone, all taken, lost beyond hope! Can’t even remember what affection feels like, anymore. The gaps left by extinguished sentiments are promptly filled with voices of misery and violence.

Ice crystals form to embellish the glassy porthole. She’s so utterly alone, now – in the name of what? Riches? Prestige? Power? Patriotic devotion? Drops in the ocean! Meaningless offspring of mortal caprices! Oh, furious hate! Were that she could trade all of that for what she had before… for half, or even a smaller portion of what she had previous to agreeing with this idiotic scheme!

The elven sorceress sighs. She was once sweet, and she was loved, and she was beautiful. For as long as her next breath, Irianna’s sadness outdoes her anger. “Why do we think so little of things we’ve always possessed? Why does it take such horrible loss...”, she whispers hollowly, holding the scarf tightly against her ruined jaw.

A flower vase shatters on the mantelpiece, its once fluid contents now petrified in frigid stillness. Irianna plucks a dead lily from its frozen bed – a translucent mockery of the container that gave it shape. It is a fragile and pointless thing. “Just as everything else”, she muses. The sparks regain their fury, and Irianna needn’t even apply strength to crush the lily into dust.

“I will see you before the end, brother”, Irianna croaks, “By the gods, I will…”, but her eyes rest on a not-so-old painting and her voice is drowned in spasmodic sobs of utmost revulsion, soon to erupt in odious screams of pure, wild detestation.

She opened her window one gloomy morning, and the trees spoke to her softly about their secret longings, and along with their whispers came an old piece of parchment sailing in the breeze, and it landed quietly on her writing desk. The handwriting was familiar, and the letters looked as though they had been burnt – rather than inscribed – on the decaying paper.

"Dearest Celesta,

I hope you are well. There are no words to express how I regret not being able to stand by your side and see you safely through your terrible ordeal. However, after recent events, I became convinced that my presence in Âmien would be nothing but a burden to you and all of our people. Far too long have I dwelt in seclusion and ostracism anyway, and, as a consequence, I can no longer abide by the rules of any kingdom or government.

I suppose I could pledge my allegiance to a cause, still, and if I did – it would be to your cause. Not to you, Celesta, Queen of Âmien and Prophetess of the Holy Bridge, but to you, Celesta, the gentle soul and the truthful, loving friend. Hence, I chose to leave Âmien and assist our newly acquired allies who are not engaged in political struggles. I cannot explain what else compels me to this end, save that I have learnt to trust a gut feeling when I have one. What’s more, the powers bent on their demise are disproportionately great; the scale of their efforts intrigues me. Be it as it may, even if I see not the face of the enemy – such vision is hardly a requirement for my battle against his works.

Alas, I digress. Surely you must suspect that I did not write you to justify my behavior or warn you of threats that loom in the distance. Well, I don't reckon anything could pose a threat to Âmien right now, not after Hidden Realm decision to send emissaries to move in and inflict their obscene treaties… and no, I do not presume to judge you in respect to this. The circumstances dictate extreme measures, and one does what is necessary to protect one’s people. Still…

At any rate, I write you this night to settle an old score, and hopefully lift a heavy burden that has been weighting on our shoulders for a great many years. I believe you've come to understand it as well, but since this might be my last opportunity to address you directly in this life, I want – or rather, I NEED to convey these words to you: In short, you were right. By the gods, Celesta, you were right. The irony is overwhelming! You are and have always been every bit the prophetess that your mother was, and if the people of Âmien had put more faith in their princess, think of all the suffering that could've been averted. I too ought to have trusted you more thoroughly, and for my lack of valor it is well that I should offer my deepest apologies. I was young, and the whole idea of being “chosen” didn’t please me at all. It smelt of martyrdom. So I was afraid, and did not entirely regret being cast away and branded as fallen hero in the days that followed your father’s death. It took me over a hundred years and a few extra ruinous events to see through the veils woven by my own weakness.

At present, however, not the tiniest shadow of hesitation tarnishes my thoughts, and I stand ready to fulfill – belatedly though it may be – the destiny that you foretold. It is high time we saw this tale to its bitter end, and the more I think about it, the more certain I grow in respect to where and how it is going to be concluded. Once, a lifetime ago, I befriended a young knight who had also unwittingly worn the cloak of “hero”. Alas, it didn’t end well for either of us. We became both entangled in the torn threads of destinies unfulfilled. I understand that my role in all of this is to correct that deviation. I do not know what will come of it, Celesta, but I have this ominous feeling that our lives in this world are lingering beyond what they were meant to be, and that once we come full circle and all lose ends are tied, that will be the last thing we’ll have done in this world. It is a grim prospect, but I am not afraid to pursue it if there is the slightest chance that… that I can finally expunge this unspeakable mass of guilt and regret that taints me to the core of my immortal soul.

Know that I have never blamed you, and that you were right. You are a remarkable woman, and if there’s any wrong in the whole of your actions throughout history, it is the sin of not having embraced wholly and without diffidence the sheer beauty that resides in every aspect of your being, reflected only partially in the miraculous gift that you inherited from your mother.

I wish you strength to endure, serenity to comprehend, and wisdom to guide.
Farewell for now,
Lórien Wyrmleaf"

An den kleinen Radioapparat

Oh little box I carried in my flight
so as not to break the radio tubes inside me
from house to boat from boat to house held tight
so that my enemies could still address me

Right where I slept and much to my dismay
last thing each night and first thing everyday
about their victories (defeats for me)
oh please do not fall silent suddenly.

Adrian Ewing went back to the place where his youth had been spent. No sooner had he finished recollecting his memories than he realized all joy was vanished. Where had it gone? An unyielding, wretched need to hunt down and retake at least a minute fraction of his lost treasures walloped fiercely beneath the crust of his heart. A resolution took Adrian Ewing (rather than the opposite), that he would withdraw from the world, retreat into those barren wastelands and industriously peruse them till he located the lost belongings or came to acceptable terms with his predicament. We are still waiting for Mr. Ewing to turn up. Without him, this story cannot continue.

Tell me why.

"William Walker sat silently one night and began to think. His feeble attempts to put the events of life into perspective had never born good fruits – mostly green ones – which he had been unable to digest properly. Hope was a fragile, warm, tiny flickering bluish thing hovering above his left shoulder, ready to expire. He was waiting for a miracle, a life-changing episode. However, he was also coming to understand that these things only happen once in a lifetime, and only after all hope is gone. What’s more, it doesn’t happen to everyone, but only to those select few casted by the unseen hand of fate to be life’s main characters. “Figurants don’t get to have epiphanies, Will” – he whispered in the hollow of his bedroom. Then he shot himself in the face, and fell very slowly, with a quiet thump, in the empty space between his bed and the blood-sprinkled window. Later, in the afterlife, William realized that his only big mistake had been not being able to recognize an epiphany when he had one."