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Long De Chuan Ren"雖不曾看見長江美；夢裡常神遊長江水
LiesEngland is sick. Twisted.
He is a sadist. He enjoys bondage. He revels in it.
He loves chains.
They lock him to anotherthey make him think he is not alone; like there are others that care about him...they help him lie. They lie; every whisper that rattles forth as they move...they croon, snake-like, that they will never rust. They gleam too muchthey say they are strong. They will not break. They will be there forever.
And every time they do, England believes them. He is gullible.
They snapevery time.
Momento MoriToday is today and tomorrow is tomorrowquite fittingly here and there.
When I was a child, I thought it would be forever until I could touch the top of the doorframe. When I was a child, I thought I would be young forever, and ever, and ever. I felt it; I thought it. I knew death, the end of the line; yet, that was far away. I felt, I would never reach it. There was so much time.
Even then, the smell of spring was strong to me. Summer as wellthere was grass and air and laughter. As I grew older, nostalgia came stronger, and one day, like everyone else, I realized I was oldyoung, but old.
Time ticks away very, very fast; the old man or woman I may be someday knowsthe old man, who wanted to play the drums, to swim twenty miles and thought he would do it tomorrow, that there was a tomorrow, only to find one tomorrow wrought with a glimpse in the mirror, perhaps a crack in the glasshair that has gone gray. And then there is the thoughtmemento mori.
ExhibitionOf sheens of sweat and tired limbs
And wrists now cracked with bombarded rims
Thirty hours out of three, a second become eternity
And of plowed-out lands, work is free.
The ticking rifles, spun sun-high; the swirling stars, radiation skies.
Untimely DeathsShe hung herself when the only friend she had turned on her.
She hung herself and her killers laughed.
She hung herself when she once sang and danced.
She hung herself and her memory was dashed with attention.
She hung herself when so many others had not.
She hung herself when the world stayed silent.
Bullying, they say. And they wear pink shirts and wear purple bands. And the world has opened its eyes, because people have died, more than onetoo many.
And finally, the cruelty of the young has flipped itself over, exposed its belly with gleaming eyes. And finally, the world speaks.
Now. Change. They want it. They cry. And howl. They stomp in outrage, and mutter with venom. Because they want justice, because students, innocent students, have become murderers.
And I think, think back to when I clung on, when "bullying" seemed too small a word, and a by-product of lifetearful nights and emptiness
They are so late.
Maybe I should have committed suicide earlie
I hate you like I love you.I love you, they say, you say, and I think, think hard
What is I love you? What is "I love you"?
What is I hate you?and then, "I hate you"?
And I think, some morethey tell me "I hate you," when it is I hate you. And it can be otherwise...can it not?
"I love you" is like I hate you, just as I love you is "I hate you." And I know "I hate you"all along, it has been I hate you.
Sharp pain in the head. A hug, a sweet voice fills my ears. Filled. This was before. It was "I hate you" as I hate you, and sometimes "I love you" as I hate you. This was before, and it still is.
But this was someone else. Someone I coolly reply to"I hate you," and have been doing so to, with the pain throbbing in my head. Metal jangling against it.
Here, I am faced with "I love you," and I don't know what it isI love you, or I hate you? Because there is no pain, only the sky, and the sun floating gently in the sky. And the clouds wrap about it, and it is still like a little spot
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
Inspector Wolf The old lady was dead. I could smell it before I even got into the house. The whole place reeked of adrenaline, sweat, fear, copper and steel. He’d dropped her right in her living room. Chopped and chopped until she stopped moving. But I could tell I was getting close. This had been done in a hurry, and the killer didn’t have the time to clean up after himself like he usually did.
Across the room, the phone rang. The shrill sound set my teeth to grinding, but I ignored it. Instead I followed the killer’s bloody footprints into the back bedroom. He’d climbed out the window. If I hurried, I could catch up to him and end this disgusting spree he was on.
Then the answering machine kicked in. “Hi, Gramma! It’s Red. Sorry I’m running late. I kind of lost track of time. But don’t worry. I packed the picnic and I’m heading out the door right now. Love you.”
She’d been expec
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