2. advent

Det er den andre søndagen i advent og jeg har ikke adventslys.
Men jeg har kalenderlys, julemusikk på Spotify og te som smaker jul (som jeg klarer faktisk å drikke!) og Hamsuns Fra det ubevidste Sjæleliv (som ikke har noen med jula å gjøre).
Men det har dette:

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tinny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

Currently reading:

Det er snart jul! Nå om dagen spiser jeg klementiner, lager Spotify-liste med alle versjoner jeg finner av "Baby it's Cold Outside" og prøver å finne en gløggoppskrift uten sukker - som ikke har 20 ingredienser i oppskriften.

Årets bokjuleliste er ikke spesifisert til noen spesielle bøker, bare temaet jul - hvem sier julestemningen må vente til desember? Lista er ikke så lang denna gangen, hittil har jeg fått tak i en samling av Dickens sine julehistorier og Levi Henriksen Hjem til jul.
Det er ikke jul enda, men jeg føler for å begynne nå siden "eksamensstresset" for min del er over, så jeg begynte like godt å lese Charles Dickens A Christmas Carol i pausa på jobben i går.

Leser også for øyeblikket Sukker en snikende fare bare fordi jeg elsker sånne bøker! Spør romkameraten min, i fjor på denne tiden irriterte jeg vettet av henne med fakta fra Den hemmelige kokken som handler om hvordan matindustrien lurer oss.

Her skulle det være en youtube video med Zooey Deschanel som synger "Baby it's Cold Outside", men ingen av de klippene jeg fant lot meg kopiere den, så da blir det Hjem til jul trailer i stedet. For den får jeg kopiere!

Happy Halloween!

And what's Halloween without Vincent Price and Edgar Allen Poe?






The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

By Edgar Allen Poe

The day sugar died

At least it is dead to me.



Jeg går herved på sukkerstreik, og ikke den søte sukkerstreiken hvor man ikke skal spise godteri, men-først-bare-må-jeg-ha-muffins-så-jeg-venter-til-mandag streiken.



Sukker har ingen næringsstoffer, den tar faktisk næringsstoffer fra kroppen (blant annet jern som jeg allerede mangler en hel del av), det er avhengighetsskapende, og det er rett og slett ikke bra for deg - i hvert fall ikke meg. I perioder hvor jeg stresser mye spiser jeg også mye sukker og jeg blir alltid sjuk. Og siden det er lite sannsynlig at stresset kommer til å minke før jul kutter jeg heller ut alt raffinert sukker.
So it's Good Bye to Sugar.
Ønsk meg lykke til, og spør meg om tre uker om jeg faktisk klarte det.

(P.S. Bildene er stjålet fra KK.)

When life gets you down mrs. Brown

I won't write my poem until I'm in my right mind

I smoked my friends down to the filter

Little Drop of Poison

I like my town with a little drop of poison
Nobody knows they're lining up to go insane
I'm all alone, I smoke my friends down to the filter
But I feel much cleaner after it rains

She left in the fall, that's her picture on the wall
She always had that little drop of poison
She left in the fall, that's her picture on the wall
She always had that little drop of poison

Did the devil make the world while god was sleeping
Someone said you'll never get a wish from a bone
Another wrong good-bye and a hundred sailors
That deep blue sky is my home

She left in the fall, that's her picture on the wall
She always had that little drop of poison
She left in the fall, that's her picture on the wall
She always had that little drop of poison

A rat always knows when he's in with weasels
Here you lose a little every day
I remember when a million was a million
They all have ways to make you pay
They all have ways to make you pay

By the picture perfect Tom Waits

Glassrommet av Simon Mawer

Spoilert alert...

Kort fortalt handler boken om det nygifte paret Landauer. Av Liesels foreldre får de tomt hvor Victor planlegger å bygge et Hus ulikt alle andre hus. På deres bryllupsreise til Italia møter de en tysk arkitekt som de velger å bruke til å bygge Huset. Tilbake i Tsjekkia begynner byggingen, og i slutten av 1920-årene står Glasshuset klart (dette huset eksisterer i virkeligheten og er nå faktisk på UNESCO-listen). De får dessverre ikke bo i så altfor mange år i huset siden andre verdenskrig nærmer seg og Victor Landauer er jøde. Så når Tsjekkia blir invadert flykter de først til Sveits og videre til USA. Her deler historien seg mellom Landauer familien og villaen. Navnet på romanen kommer av hovedrommet hvor nesten alle veggene er av glass, det er her det meste av historien forholder seg i fortellinga om huset.

Simon Mawer har fått mye skryt av språket han bruker i denne romanen, jeg har en følelse av at mye av det har blitt borte i oversettelsen, men det kan være fordi jeg liker best å lese bøker fra engelske forfattere på engelsk. Språket er veldig simplistisk - det er ingen adjektivblomster og sidelange beskrivelser. Forfatteren bruker paralleller og symbolisme. For Liesel er huset nært knyttet til familien. Hennes første graviditet skjer samtidig med at huset blir bygd, så for henne blir begge hendelser symboler på vekst og utvikling. For Victor handler glassveggene om gjennomsiktlighet, om sannhet og åpenhet - som er ironisk siden han faktisk holder en elskerinne hemmelig gjennom store deler av ekteskapet. Huset og arkitekturen blir også en integrert del av boken, blant annet blir husets plantegninger brukt til å skille romanens handlinger fra hverandre.

Selv likte jeg best bokas første del, da fortellingen enda ligger på det optimistiske 1920-tallet og alt handler om kunsten og framskrittet. Romanens første kapitell hinter om et idyllisk ekteskap i det en eldre Liesel tenker tilbake til tapte tider. Denne drømmen knuses av hverdagsrealisme når familielivets rutiner setter inn. Her går også boka inn i en stillestående fase som varer altfor lenge, før plutselig helvete sleppes løs. I løpet av kort tid blir Liesels bestevenninne voldtatt av sin elsker - en tysk offiser, og Victors elskerinne - nå også Landauer familiens barnepike - blir tatt av tyske soldater fordi hun er jøde, og Victor vurderer å ofre seg selv for å bli med henne.
Her finnes også bokas lavmål i det Liesel skriker til ektemannen: "Du er så kørka!" - kørka?!? Liesel - som snakker veldig pent i resten av romanen - kaster plutselig hun ut, av alle ting, et "kørka"? Hvorfor "kørka"? Det finnes så mange andre ord som kan brukes i stedet: idiot, dust, jævel, horebukk, fehode, fjols, hønsehjerne, pappskalle, stut, tosk, tåpe - eller min personlige favoritt: åndspygmé? (Synonymordbøker er fantastiske) Hvis ikke originialen sier noe lignende "You are like so corked" får det meg til å lure på oversetteren kompetanse. Ikke at jeg har tenkt til å sjekke hva det står i originalen, jeg liker å tro at det faktisk står "corked".



Personlig finner jeg historiene som følger Landauer villaen mye mer interessant enn den som omhandler familien. Dette er mye fordi at etter romanen deles i to hovedsynspunkt, er det Victors tankegang som følges hos familien Landauer og alt han tenker på er elskerinna - som blir veldig kjedelig i lengden. I fortellingene som følger huset flyttes perspektivet til eierne/bestyrerne av Glasshuset. Den første som følges er en tysk offiser som forandrer huset inn til et laboratorium hvor det skal forskes på forskjeller på menneskeraser. Når de ikke klarer å finne en direkte årsak til at arier skal være bedre enn jøder blir prosjektet skrinlagt, og huset vaktmester tar over synspunktet. Under kommunismen blir huset et treningssenter for syke, og her følges synspunktet til en av legene og ballerinaen hans.
Bokas mest forstyrrende del står den tyske offiserens for. Han kommer i kontakt med Hana, Liesels bestevenninne (og også elskerinne - det er mange av de i denna boka). Gjennom hele deres forhold er det Hana som har makten, som gjør at den tyske offiseren føler seg maktesløs. Han klarer ikke å forsone seg med at en kvinne av slaviske aner kan ha makten over en stolt arier som han. Rollene snus imidlertid når det viser seg at Hana har blitt gravid med den tyske offiseren. Når hun kommer for å be om støtte for barnet finner han en måte å vinne makten på, først slår han henne før han oppdager hvor lett det er å voldta henne. Hele episoden er sett gjennom hans øyne, og leseren får se hvordan hans syn på Hana forandres fra den seksuelle, frigjorte og eksotiske damen, til et lite pikebarn av en degenerert rase.
Jeg ble rett og slett litt mannevond mens jeg leste denna boka, alle mennene i denna romanen er horebukker som yter både fysisk og psykisk vold over kvinnene de liksom skal bry seg om. Den eneste mannen som virker som en trofast ektemannen er Hanas mye eldre ektemann, en karakter som leserne nesten ikke får høre om - i det forholdet er det Hana som er konstant utro. Kvinnene er kanskje ikke så mye bedre...

I discovered ebay...

Six posters and two weeks later I'm starting to think I that even though there are lots of interesting things on ebay that's just one click away, it doesn't mean you actually have to click the button...

How much do I love 500 Days of Summer?

Lots and lots

First of all I love the casting, Joseph Gordon-Levitt I've liked since Third Rock from the Sun and Ten Things I Hate About You (I hate what they did to his character in the television version, he's pathetic).
And I've been following Zooey Deschanel ever since she played the older sister in Almost Famous:



I wish I had a sibling like that, who would give me all their CDs (come to think of it, I sort of do. I "borrowed" several of my brothers CDs when I was younger and he can't remember which, so he has given up on ever getting them back).
Let me count the ways I am jealous of Zooey: 1. Her parents named her after a J.D. Salinger character (a male character, actually). 2 She's married to the lead vocalist of Death Cab for Cuties, Ben Gibbard. 3. She played one of the funniest characters I have seen on television in Weeds. 4. She is in the band She & Him - the girl can sing. write good music, and act.
I would probably hate her if she didn't look to cool to resent. Her 60's style I would love to steal, and everytime I see her I want to color my hair back to brown. I don't think I would mind being her.

Right, so I realize I have said nothing about the movie itself. It has become a "sleeper hit", which I've just learned means a movie/book/album etc. that becomes an unexpected success. Something it definitely deserve.
I'll just leave you with a clip from the movie:



They actually made a dance sequence to Hall & Oats! Come on, that's just funny.

Fuck you flowers!

Noen ganger lurer jeg på om jeg er en så god hypokonder at jeg faktisk klarer å overtale meg selv til å føle smerte fysisk - i dag er en av de dagene. Jeg har klart å få kink i ryggen, det eneste jeg gjorde var å snakke med en person, snu meg og bøye meg litt ned for å ta opp noe fra et bord og pang - kink i ryggen! Så det er spørsmålet: liker jeg å synes synd på meg selv, så jeg må på død og liv alltid finne på noe å klage på; eller jeg bare uheldig eller uforsiktig??
Uansett, jeg er drit lei og skylder på blomstene.
Bildet kommer forresten fra en fantastisk blogg jeg akkurat har oppdaga: The Big Caption

A girl mad as birds

Love in the asylum

A stranger has come
To share my room in the house not right in the head,
A girl mad as birds

Bolting the night of the door with her arm her plume.
Strait in the mazed bed
She deludes the heaven-proof house with entering clouds

Yet she deludes with walking the nightmarish room,
At large as the dead,
Or rides the imagined oceans of the male wards.

She has come possessed
Who admits the delusive light through the bouncing wall,
Possessed by the skies

She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust
Yet raves at her will
On the madhouse boards worn thin by my walking tears.

And taken by light in her arms at long and dear last
I may without fail
Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.

By Dylan Thomas

Philosophizing about life and literature

Which in my world basically mean the same thing...
Each holiday I make a huge list of books I plan to read, which I never end up actually doing because I find other books to read in stead. Well, I'm not giving up.
This time I feel like reading a few classics, and some I think should end up being classic (mind you, I'm saying this even before I've read them...):
- Jack Kerouac's On the Road, I actually have two different versions of this book: the original manuscript and the one that ended up being published - I don't know which one I'll read.
- Allen Ginsberg, I love his poems and I've gotten a hold of his whole production, I might not read it all, but I'll definitely read his collection Howl and other poems.
- Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar.
- Joseph Heller's Catch-22.These are all books I was supposed to read last fall, but never got through them (I took a class in 1950s American Literature).
- James Joyce's Ulysses - the original 1922 text, apparently without interference - what ever that means.
- Miguel de Cervantes Saaveda's Don Quijote - I've read it for a class earlier, but never finished it.
- Ernest Hemingway: For Whom the Bell Tolls and To Have and Have not - I'm not sure I'll read them both, we'll see.
- Amalie Skram: Constance Ring - One Norwegian made the list!
- John Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath - I have started reading this book so many time, it's about time I get past chapter 4
- Alexandre Dumas: The Count of Monte Cristo - saw the movie the other day, it made me want to read the book.

And the non-classics:
- Haruki Murakami: Norwegian Wood and The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle - I love Murakami, he is one of my favourite authors.
- Paul Auster: The Book of Illusions - I'm reading this one because I promised a friend I would a few years ago, but never did.

But before I read any of these books I'm going to read Chris Cleave's Little Bee - which I will be writing a review of for a journal (? På godt norsk: tidsskrift). Yesterday I was at a book meeting where Chris Cleave read from the book, it was so much fun. He is really good at presenting himself and his book.
A friend of mine and I got up really early to go to the book meeting at Aschehoug, and all I could think of when I was there was how much I wanted to work there. <- and that's the life part of this blog

The usual suspects

Bob Dylan love six times over x2

Ah, eksamenshumor

Jepp, alt er morsomt under eksamen. Hittil i dag har jeg ledd av mannsfroskning (feilstavelse av mannsforksning, men la oss innrømme at mannsfroskning høres så mye morsommere ut), Grand Prix - generelt bare hysteriskt morsomt, og sist, men ikke minst: Monty Python!

Men bare fordi jeg eier konstentrasjonsevnen til en bananflue om dagen legger jeg heller inn noe fullstendig annet!

When life gets you down mrs. Brown

Finværet blir visst borte, men sola skinner i dag. Det har ingenting med videoen av Lou Dillion å gjøre i det hele tatt, det er bare fin. Og det er også været i dag, og der er linken.

Spring is in the air

and I'm in a good mood. These days it's happy summer songs and smoothies, and for some very scary reason that can only be desribed as spring: I'm actually working out and liking it(!), with the help from my roommate.
This deserve a real feel-good song, and who better than Little Joy?

Påske!

Nå er det snart påske med påskeegg, påskekrim og det viktigste av alt: Fjols til Fjells

A Stranger's Coat Pocket

Where I stole the name from:

I want to be a lost poem
in a stranger’s coat pocket,
that conveys the importance of you.
To assure you of my desire,
to assure you of dreams.
I want all the possibilities
of you in writing.
I want to give you
your reflection,
I want your eyes on me,
I want to travel to the lightness
with you and stay there,
and I want
everything before you…
…everything before you
to follow us like a trail behind me.
I want never
to say goodbye to you,
even on the street corner
or the phone.
I want,
I want so much
I’m breathless.
I want to put my power
into a poem to burn a hole
in your pocket
so I can sew it.
I want my words
to scream through you
I want the poem
not to mean that much.
And I want
to contradict myself by accident,
and for you
to know what I mean.
I want you to be distant
and for me to feel you close,
I want endless days
when it’s day and…
nighttime never to end
when it’s night.
I want all the seasons
in one day.
I want the sun to set before us
and come up in front of us.
I want water up to our waists
and to be drenched by the rain,
up to our ankles
with holes in our shoes.
…with holes in our shoes.
I want to think your thoughts
because they’re mine.
I want only
what’s urgent with you.
I want to get
in the way of the barriers
and I want you to be a tough guy
when you’re supposed to,
like you do already.
…when you’re supposed to.
And I want you to be tender,
like you do already.
And I want us
to have met for a reason
and I want that reason
to be important.
And I want it
to be bigger than us,
I want it to take over us.
I want to forget.
I want to remember us.
And when you say
you love me
I don’t want to think
you really mean New York City,
and all the fun
we have in it.
And I want your smile always,
and your grimaces too.
I want your scar on my lips,
and I want your disappointments
in my heart.
I want your strength
in my soul
and I want
your soul in my eyes,
I want to believe
everything you say,
and I do.
And I want you
to tell me what’s best
when I don’t know.
And when you’re lost
I want to find you.
And when you’re weary
I want to give you steeples
and cathedral thoughts
and coliseum dreams.
I want to drag you from the darkness
and kneel with you
exhausted with the blinding light
blaring on us,
And…

- Chelsea Walls