being a journalist

the good thing on (finally) being a journalist is that i don't have to care about breakfast or lunch anymore.

take a bow

corrupt,
you're corrupt,
bring corruption to all that you touch.

hold,
you behold
and beholden for all that you've done.

and spin,
cast a spell,
cast a spell on the country you run.

and risk,
you will risk,
you will risk all their lives and their souls.

and burn,
you will burn,
you will burn in hell, yeah you'll burn in hell...
you'll burn in hell, yeah you'll burn in hell
for your sins

and our freedom's consuming itself;
what we've become
it's contrary to what we want,

take a bow.....

death,
you bring death,
and destruction to all that you touch.

pay,
you must pay,
you must pay for your crimes against the earth.

yeah hex,
feed the hex,
feed the hex on the country you love.

now beg!
you will beg!
you will beg for their lives and their souls...

now burn!
you will burn!
you will burn in hell, yeah you'll burn in hell!
you'll burn in hell,
yeah you'll burn in hell!
you'll burn in hell,
yeah you'll burn in hell
for your sins.

| muse, take a bow, black holes and revelations #1 |

this song defines what epic is all about.

phylosophy out of friend's messeger nickname

i'd rather be hated for what i am than to be loved for what i'm not.

recurring dream

the recurring dream: s. walks alone towards his car. it's night fall, and he's leaving his office to finally go home after one day full of great deeds. he walks in the quiet solitude of the parking lot unaware of my presence, in some nearby rooftop, with my precious fully automatic sniper rifle. and, as s. tries to open the door, i open fire. one shot shattering the windshield. two shots on the tires, precise and deadly. some more shots at the window glasses - but not one, not a single one at him. no, he wasn't meant to die in this treacherous assault. he would be left there, lying on the floor, shaking like an autumn leaf, too affraid to even cry for help while i packed my gun and went home, whistling a joyful song to the night's cold air.

and then i wake up. it's so sad.

to read

next time, mate, read me more carefully.