I want to freeze this moment. This moment induced by the beauty of prose. I want to savor forever the emotions, the thoughts that it provokes. I want to never forget the bliss of connection with this world, with its people, with this paradise. I stand outside and slip a cigarette out of its box, flicking the wheel of the lighter and igniting my cancer. As the fire catches, and the faint sound of burning paper reaches my ears, it seems as if I've lit the fire of my being, and the smoke trailing from the end of the cigarette mirrors the smoke rising from my blazing soul. In the smoke I'm free to observe everything within me—my fears, my past, my thoughts, my burning desires, and my hidden passion. This is the fire of inspiration.

I gaze at this natural landscape, at first hoping that my eyes will subconsciously avert themselves from whatever signs of humanity I observe—vessels of infection, spoiling this untouched paradise of nature. Instead, this vain hope gives rise to more unwelcome thoughts, themselves only reminding me of the impossibility of my dream. I shall never be able to escape from the influence of humankind. We have made our imprint on this planet—no, more than an imprint. We have become this planet, and the chances of finding a small oasis of purity within it are in all reality very slim. We've overrun the planet—an infestation, an uncalled for and unwelcome invasion. Our existence is cancerous and regrettable; only a blip on the vast map of the universe, yet still so problematic and destructive.

The realization of the consequence of our existence transforms nature into something else. It no longer is the careful, chaotic arrangement of beauty it once was. Instead, it's a product of man's presence. The trees stand in silent disapproval of my observing them. The inky black night sky dotted with luminescent stars and planets has become nothing more than a pinpricked canvas stretched over glaring fluorescent lights—divine lights who placed the canvas themselves in order to be rid of the awful view of the primal, untouched earth becoming inhabited by ignorant beasts who give no regard to the rights of the land they burn and build upon.

The malice of my thoughts astounds me. The cool night air on my legs admonishes me for being so harsh, and I await the inevitable emergence of goosebumps. But the goosebumps do not come, as if their absence is a sign that this moment is monumental and is meant to be lost within. This is a time for reflection, for self construction, analyzing and re-constructing my thoughts in order to form them into a semblance of something I can believe in; a reference point that I can turn to in times of trouble and find solace in. The chill goes unfelt, and I let myself become lost in the night.

Sure enough, I look back up at the horribly obtrusive falseness of the sky, but see something else. A shooting star, a testament to the reality of what I am seeing. As if it had never changed in the first place, the sky has become again something I can believe in, something untouched by man's spoiling hands. No light should be able to flow across a pockmarked canvas. The shooting star truly does give hope, but now, instead of in the cliché, unexplained method, it gives hope in the form of something tangible, a thing I can explain. This inspiration rooted in reason is much more comforting than the spectral manifestation of something transparent and whimsical, such as an instance of an angel spotted in the glare of sunlight on the lens of some tourist's camera.

Perhaps man's presence is not as negative as it would seem. Perhaps...perhaps we have a right to inherit this earth. I lower my gaze to include that of the trees, and with the cold May breeze shifts their leaves ever so slightly, creating a chorus of shushing voices that whisper, “Be quiet. Listen. Stand still and behold the significance of your existence.” I take their heed and fall back into my rapture, letting the material ties that held me back fall away into the oblivion I have just left. One would think it is the other way around, but on the contrary. I have left a world that has no meaning, where ambiguity rules all and life is merely transient and sadly temporary. This Nirvana I have reverted to feels much more like home. Here, I see reasons for my existence rather than a void that only returns the echoes of my beseeching cries. Here, I am met with no resistance as opposed the world in which I fight my way through a barrier of silent voices that scream for me to halt but without giving reason. My thoughts flow so freely here, but they do not even seem to be my own. Instead, they are the answers I've long sought after and now finally stumbled across in this divinely-induced rapture.

I must not let myself be lost in this world, however. I cannot allow myself to wander its streets forever, streets identical to the world I hail from but somehow completely transformed. The cigarette that I still am taking drags from serves as an anchor. The harsh smoke that fills my lungs and soothes my physical body maintains a flow of feeling that I can hold onto, not allowing my soul to forever leave its prison, for I must bring back to my fellow man the story of my impending revelation.

And while I hold so tenaciously onto whatever semblance of formless reality I can, I realize, this world is mine. Not only is it mine, but I am hers. Possession, in fact, has no bearing whatsoever. There cannot be an owner. We share this world, but not in the sense of physical sharing, for how can one share that which is already owned by all parties? Indeed, the world belongs not only to mankind, but to all breathing creatures that swim under, crawl upon, and fly above its surfaces. Rather than share our connection, we share our own individual expressions of our connection, showing each other that there are truly infinite ways in which we can feel in place. To be explained in words seems to be sacrilegious, but it's as if one spirit flows through and around everything on this planet, in this universe, in existence. We are that spirit, and that spirit is us. We are not mere components of its existence, but instead every individual composes everything that is the spirit because the spirit encompasses all that is within us and carries the flow of that substance to the rest of existence. The same wind that rustles the raspy leaves brings to me the pain and joys of not only my fellow man, but of Mother Nature herself, for rather than an ultimate being which we have betrayed, is another mere pawn of some cruel trick that we are all subjects of.

It's times like this that I ponder the existence of a supreme being, but at this point, I cannot. The being, rather than becoming an explanation for our suffering, would only be part of the same suffering, the suffering of existence, the pain of the grey.

     昨天我们4家人去 丰台南宫游玩 (大姨.  二姨.大舅舅.我们)    游泳   然后住在外面一晚的

    二姨没有去游泳   她负责带2只狗狗在附近遛弯的        突然有放炮声    笨笨吓坏了   挣脱了绳索     自己跑掉了

      我们找了一晚上    没有找到它的     很是着急的

     今天早晨你给我打电话时   我和爸爸正在外面找它的      爸爸还不让说          怕你担心  不高兴的

   毕竟它陪伴了我们10年啊          你之前的寒.署假都是它陪 你度过的啊

      中午要离开丰台了        它突然出现在我们住的小院          场面好激动啊

     美妞   我们都落泪了            笨笨说了半天 和我们    

    真好     它又回到我们身边的  

                                                                                                                                              29. 01. 09  妈爸

我娘的email实在是太煽情了，我于是用回信平衡一下：笨笨身为一家之狗，母仪天下，今后一定要多锻炼！另外以后再去穷乡僻壤的地方一定要把她栓牢了，手铐脚镣一个都不能少！   

Emo Kid

You are 14% Rational, 14% Extroverted, 14% Brutal, and 29% Arrogant.

You are the Emo Kid, best described as a quiet pussy! You tend to be an intuitive rather than a logical thinker, meaning you rely more on your feelings than your thoughts. Not only that, but you are introverted, gentle, and rather humble. You embody all the traits of the perfect emo kid. You are a push-over, an emotional thinker, gentle to the extent of absurdity, and so humble that it even makes Jesus puke. (And Jesus almost never pukes, being immortal and not requiring an act of puke to dispell toxins from his corporeal manifestation.) If you write poetry, you no doubt write angsty, syrupy lines about depression, sadness, and other such redundant states of emo-being that go something like this:

life is a spike / upon which i have impaled myself / fuck you dad

So, your personality is defective because you are too gentle, rather underconfident in yourself, decidely lacking in any rational thought, and also a bit too inhibited. Plus, your poetry really upsets your father.

I probably made you cry, didn't I? Fucking Emo Kid.

To put it less negatively:

1. You are more INTUITIVE than rational.

2. You are more INTROVERTED than extroverted.

3. You are more GENTLE than brutal.

4. You are more HUMBLE than arrogant.

Compatibility:

Your exact opposite is the Smartass.

Other personalities you would probably get along with are the Hippie, the Televangelist, and the Starving Artist.

Your Best Subject & IQ Score

Your Comparative Intelligences

Your highest IQ is social

spatial is your second strongest area

Heart of Gold

You are 80% Independent, 60% Idealistic, 70% Intimate, and 60% Indulgent!

The Heart of Gold
Independent, Idealistic, Intimate, Indulgent

You are the most loving of hearts, the Heart of Gold. You possess all the most loving qualities, intimacy, the desire for closeness, and an idealistic view of love. At the same time, you are not bound by love, and so stand on tall on your own. You know you will find love and aren't worried about not acquiring it - it is only a matter of time, and you are happy in the meantime waiting. You are the purest of all hearts, loving and self-assured, as complete and whole as a heart can be.

Almost Ego Free

20 points on Ego. You're practically a Zen master!

Open Minded

You scored 55 Objectivity, 67 Tolerance, 72 Honesty, and 54 Enlightenment!

The High-grade lover

79% Romance, 91% Spontanaiety and 78% Thoughtfulness!

   NO WONDER MY HANDS WERE SHACKING....

runway driections given to models before the show Willow 08fw                                       finale at zac posen 08fw   finale at michael kors 08fw

U GOT CHECK THESE OUT, THEY WERE LIKE HAVING SEX WITH CLOTHES ON!!!

重新听到这首Tears And Rain，电流触通全身。James Blunt把漂浮的ILC一把抓起，投掷在一年前洋洋夏日的激流中。失重，持续的失重。耳边娓娓道来的温情和人行横道两端的对视暴雨剪辑般地闪过。
什么叫做通感。
张震在最好的时光中写给舒淇的信件；服役军人在恋爱梦中写给台球女的信件。一个被青涩的忧郁浸泡着的年轻男子，趴在床前，告诉一个并不熟识的女子，军营中正响着The Beatles的Rain And Tears.一个并无太多要求安于现状的年轻女子，轻轻阅读着面孔英俊的他静躁的心情。她也并不了解他。爱情便是这般开始。
前天在现代艺术中心看的俄罗斯短片，非常喜欢。这个小小的短片，甚至连名字都没有，却绽放着整个民族的光芒。没看过多少俄罗斯电影，但仍然幼稚地形成了自己的看法。正如这部短片证给我的——广袤的土地，沉积的是阴天的情绪。那是被雨水模糊的车窗，落入水桶中的苹果，案板上的新鲜蔬菜，田野间的绿色雾气，夕阳下的金色汗毛。那是少年对爱情的期许，青年对生活的笃定。男孩子总是要晚些成熟，婚姻，不是他的根本期待。他只是想在这样一个阴沉的午后，逃出军营，跑到心爱的恋人窗前，告诉她，他爱她。只是想在恋人的婚礼前一天，深情地吻她，邀她私奔。结果，是多余的。他只是想莽撞的这样勇敢一次。做了，就够了。女孩子，总是渴求安定。小兽般的激情热烈的眼神怎可能不为之动情。但是，她明白自己要的是什么，更明白他将要的是什么，她太明白他要的是什么。
苹果树下，金色暮气中，她奋力把半个青色苹果远远掷出。
结尾，镜头远远的，静静的。她甜甜一笑，追向男孩子倔强的背影。身边的金发碧眼们有点骚动，纷纷议论怎么回事是不是她跟他私奔了。
我坐在渐渐开始亮灯的放映室里，认真地看着微微飘动的屏幕，心里认定，当然没有私奔。
因为这是一个讲述年轻的故事，而不是爱情。