And... why not?

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Tabs from: Fretplay.com

High Definition

Bright sparkles, winding mazes, glimmers of thoughts that still remain silent taking shelter under apocalyptic memory slabs. Heavy, neglected, decided and obscured slabs. Untangling complication from the uncertainty skein, plaiting rugs and bracelets. In positive. In negative. Fade to blue. Fade To Black. Brightness. Contrast. Grayscale. Unvarnished wicker trunks painted turquoise green. Blades. Scars. Frozen steel. Letters are outlined back to front in the vapour of the mirrors that rear-view mirrors see and project on the hallucination historical pages, on the silences dictionary pages. Thinking and depicting.

Hall Of The Mountain King

Far away
in a land caught between time and space
where the books of life lay
within this castle of stone
the mountain king roams
all alone in here
but he's not the only one
lost inside
forever hidden from the sun

-"Hall Of The Mountain King", Savatage.

An Eternal Place

Thunderstorm woke her up, crashing and shouting on her window. She was not waken up easily by anything. But she didn’t looked bothered after all. She had fall asleep reading not even covered by any blanket, just wearing her underwear and a shirt. She removed her bra magically without removing her shirt. She was cold, but she was happy to be so.

She sits in the bed with her back leaning on the wall. Her hair is all messy and the braces of her shirt fall from her shoulders. Her eyes look somehow greener. Her skin is delicate and pale. She keeps on reading; her eyes change imperceptibly as she reads.

She reads words that remind her of beautiful things. An eternal place out of commitment, out of words that tie. She wonders if she would ever get tired of that feeling she treasures. She wonders how many lives she would need to live to get tired of such amazing and perfect thing. Do ever lust or desire become rust? She stares at the empty space next to her and imagines… and feels, and dreams, and knows the feeling of being in an eternal place. Her fantasies fly there every now and then, though her fantasies are also in her bed, in her pale skin, but most of all in her eyes. There are so many thoughts that can draw lust and desire in her eyes, as they are that draw just an indecipherable beautiful picture. She wishes her fantasies could turn to flesh again, and some day, awakened by another thunderstorm would sit in her bed and, quietly, in her treasured silence, sea of silence, would write about her particular eternal place where nothing exists but that feeling in which she will always believe. A feeling that has no name or dictionary definition.

...I'll violate you in the most sensual way...
-"It's All Tears", HIM

[Inspiration: "The Favourite Game", Leonard Cohen. Book II, chapter 9.]

At last!

After two years, two Junes, two Septembers, lot of hours...

Mathematics:

The Music Of The People

Where are you going?
Who are you waiting for?
What are you waiting for?

There are very few who walk for the pleasure of stepping on the floor tiles, following the lines, or avoiding them. Most of them are programmed with an arrival and departure time; a route and a certain mission. That's why their steps are steady and determined, that's why they don't see what's around them... or maybe they do "see" but don't "observe". They all move fast, so fast. Always that fast, every day. Beneath their feet there are imaginary rails from which they can't be derailed from. Automatized. Remote-controlled. Cars have rails too. The eyes don't meet, not even cross their ways. The rails don't cross. The free steps are easy to distinguish, those who have no origin or destination, no departure or arrival time, no fixed stops or estimated travel-time. Just walk for the pleasure of walking, dreaming, living, writing. Walking not because of where are you going but because of the path you would walk through... and the floor tiles you would step on. Free time, Augusts, Julys allow some lucky (or smart) ones this great deed... travel through the sea of faces and lives to the Cathedral's Square where people sound like music, where there's no need of an mp3 player to mitigate the screeching of those people's rails that cover the city streets. The steps are tranquil and soft; glances, calm. There's no time and, at the same time, it flies... flies on backpackers, blue eyes, ice creams, pictures... a guitar. Floor tiles become a seat, a stage. Acoustics are perfect, incredibly perfect. A guitar takes you far away, to other places with their floor tiles, to other memories with their smiles, to other futures with their music. And there's nothing better than walking for the sake of walking. Make up a story with its characters, rails, floor tiles... and walk the city letting other observers and thinkers cross your way with their stories. Those stories are music, statues, paintings, smiles, pictures, floor tiles, words, glances... the murmur of the stories flows without rails, without origin or destination, without arrival or departure... it flies high and becomes the whisper of pens caressing the paper of inspiration, drawing the Sea, the silence, and the music of the people.

Strip Show

"Heat Miser" - Massive Attack
"If Loving You Is Wrong" - Faithless
"Justify My Love" - Madonna
"World In My Eyes" - Depeche Mode
"Trimm Trab" - Blur
"Underwater Love" - Smoke City
"Fascination Street" - The Cure
"La Espuma De Venus" - Héroes Del Silencio
"It's All Tears" (Unplugged version) - HIM
"Mary In June" - Victory At Sea
"Loverman" - Metallica (Nick Cave cover)

Transparent Labyrinths

Vampiric confessions sending chills down my spine in a beautiful full-moon night. Practical theories, theoretical practices. Some words illegally overtake some others. The lust warning gets increasingly dangerous within seconds turning into an invitation to explore the joys of freedom. The clock strikes four, its bell makes me tremble. I keep its sound in a musical box, I stare at the silver handle and make it go round in opposite direction. I admire the flight of the sky-blue eagle that murmurs strange premonitions… strange but positive, and amazing. I associate with the vagabond thoughts that wander the nooks of any sunset and make them stand still facing adversity. Books open back to front, beginning with the end. Everything seems neat when the tiny blue squares vanish, the blue ink gets brighter. The border of the past and future margins. The coherent incoherence makes me fall into empty words that acquire chameleonic meanings, but every spiral ends up in the middle of the labyrinth. They know where the exit is and stay away from it, they take a walk around unknown rooms looking for wisdom. Characters. Colored crayons. Magical potions. When you walk over the walls of the labyrinth, doing some kind of balancing act, there’s no exit or entrance, there’s no labyrinth… there are just places. Places where vampires just leave marks in the mirrors; places where time stops to let them spin around in the opposite direction the Earth does. There’s no labyrinth.

Takeshi's Castle

Memories

"... nuestra casa sigue allí,
esperándonos en lo alto del camino,
por si un día nos volvemos a encontrar..."
- "La Verdad", La Frontera.

["... our house is still there, waiting for us in the high of the lane, just in case we meet again..." - "The Truth", La Frontera]

"Nacido Para Volar" - La Frontera

Nací de madrugada en el asiento de un Ford.
Mis padres fueron siempre para mi lo mejor,
mi madre una guitarra y mi padre el Rock & Roll.
Pronto pasó el tiempo lo recuerdo bien,
escapé por la ventana y cogí el último tren,
las chicas me querían pero el hambre me hizo volver.

Abrázame cariño,
puede que no vuelva nunca más,
he nacido para volar.

Conseguí un empleo de leñador,
trabajaba todo el día hasta que se iba el sol,
despertar por las mañanas nunca fue mi vocación.
Con los perros de la calle empecé a descubrir
que el trabajo y la rutina no están hechos para mi.
Bukowski me enseñó lo que Tom Waits no quiso decir.

Abrázame cariño,
puede que no vuelva nunca más,
he nacido para volar.

Y ahora sigo esperando el momento de actuar
mis amigos tienen prisa por volverme a encontrar.
Y yo en el camerino pregutándome dónde estarás.

["Born To Fly" - La Frontera. I was born in the early morning in a Ford seat, my parents were always the best for me, my mother was a guitar and my father Rock & Roll. The time flew fast I still recall, through the window I escaped and took the last train, the girls loved me but hunger made me come back. / Hold me darling, I may never come back, I was born to fly. / I got a job as a woodcutter, I worked all day long till the sun was gone, getting up early was never my vocation. With the dogs in the street I started to realize that work and routine are not made for me. Bukowski taught me what Tom Waits didn't want to say. / Hold me darling, I may never come back, I was born to fly. / And now I'm looking forward for the next performance, my friends are willing to meet me again and I'm in the dressing room wondering where you may be]

Natascha Kampusch

I abslolutely admire you

The Magician's Dream

I hope you dream of me tonight. The night, this particular night, whispers silver words through the spark of the Moon in a glass of crystal illusions. Salted rain brings drops of uncertainty and fear of losing to the glass. They swim across the illusions creating a shadow that prevent anyone from seeing the Moon through it. Every drop looks exactly the same, there’s no human possibility of differentiate one drop from another. In this glass uncertainty and illusions look exactly the same. But there’s still hope if one of the magicians who live in the land of EXIST would be kind enough to bring another, and bigger, glass in which drops made of uncertainty evaporate without leaving any traces… or he could also prepare a potion that has the same effect. The magician is now sleeping though the Moon is staring at him with lust and dreamful eyes, but, somehow he feels the Energy. It runs through his body making him shiver as it draws a woman by his side, a woman he knows. She’s sleeping, as he is, although he doesn’t know that. Her skin is so crystal he is afraid of touching. The magician wakes up all of a sudden and draws a picture of his dream with silver ink, just in case he might forget. The ink turns into silver dust, it flies and ends up in the glass… uncertainty evaporates and illusion shines silvery bright. The magician feels the shine and dreams again; the woman is awake now, crystal illusions turn into silver, silver turns into a big mirror and the reflection becomes pure magic as the night keeps on whispering silver words that remind me of you. And I know you’re dreaming of me tonight.

"... so hold me, until it sleeps..."

"The Wild Ones" - Suede

There's a song playing on the radio
Sky high in the airwaves on the morning show
And there's a lifeline slipping as the record plays
And as I open the blinds in my mind I'm believing that you could stay

And oh if you stay I'll chase the rainblown fields away
We'll shine like the morning and sin in the sun
Oh if you stay
We'll be the wild ones, running with the dogs today

There's a song playing through another wall
All we see and believe is the D.J. and debts dissolve
And it's a shame the plane is leaving on this sunny day
Cos on you my tattoo will be bleeding and the name will stain

But oh if you stay we'll ride from disguised suburban graves
We'll go from the bungalows where the debts still grow each day

And oh if you stay I'll chase the rainblown fears away
We'll shine like the morning and sin in the sun oh if you stay
We'll be the wild ones running with the dogs today

Hyoga

Sooner or later I'll find you again... Hyoga.

Today the time machine has rewinded fourteen years but with the knowledge and experiences of today everything seems even more amazing. And in that very same moment, a long long time ago, was when the Crystal Palace was built. It was first drawn under a table during a long conversation. Saint Seiya. Orange and Blue. Maybe it's subjective, maybe not.

¡Dame tu fuerza Pegaso!

"The cosmos of the heart embraced
Burn it high and make a miracle happen
We have to be wounded
The faraway galaxy we promised to each other
...only dreams are the wings of the heart that no one can steal...
[...] In the ever glittering sky, aim for the constellation that's yours alone"
- "Pegasus Fantasy", Saint Seiya OST.