#the freest of verse

[arsoninacup]

It’s true

The highest moments have the hardest fall

The adrenaline had worn off,

It’s so dizzy to be up so high.

The safety next, woven of people who love you most,

It seems so far from here.

The ultimate test of strength, will the fibers of friendship hold, or will the strain be to much, will you make it safe, or will the impact pull you and everyone around you down?

Only one way to find out

[nethhiri]

Marooned: Chapter 35

Kid x FemReader x Killer

Warnings: violence

Origins

Killer was right about a fuck coma. You slept for the entire rest of the day, until the next morning. Killer had helped you take a bath, getting in himself, though quickly regretting it when he kept having to hold your wrists. He gave you an inch, several actually, and you wanted a mile. He insisted you couldn't take any more after that afternoon, to which you replied by healing yourself completely. He muttered something about being just like Kid and finally convinced you that you needed to take a nap. 

The light coming in through the window made you squint. How long did I sleep? You stretched and groaned. At the foot of Killer's bed, Minerva made a short squeal in greeting. Killer let her sleep here? Your heart squeezed. Pushing yourself up, you noticed that he had also gotten clothes for you, which were neatly folded on the bed. This was so strange. You were unaccustomed to people doing nice things for you of their own will. When you were a captain, you could just tell them to do something for you. 

You came out on deck with your signature coat, having appropriately mended and cleaned it. The sun on your face tickled your cheeks and the wind tugged gently at free strands of hair. You took a moment to enjoy the view, the flat blue horizon, scratching Mini's ear as you did so. You used to have a tri-cornered hat with a feather in it that made you look quite distinguished. It would be perfect to put on now if you still had it. The time between when you left the marines and when you were caught by them were your freest, doing whatever you wanted. It was chaotic, the exact thing you had left your home island for, but perhaps that made you feel some connection to your old home. Maybe you missed the chaos. 

You leaned on the banister, looking down at the water. The waves broke up your reflection as the vessel cut through the water. From this view, you could pretend you were still on Fate's Wraith. It's not like you didn't like it here, it was different though. You weren't the captain here. In some respects it was nice, no responsibilities. On the other hand, you couldn't act as you wanted. You still kind of did, but It helped that the captain's dick had a soft spot for you...hard spot? 

Sighing, you thought about what might have been if nothing had happened to you. Would you have run into the Kid Pirates? What would have happened then? Would you still be hunting marines? Would you have killed Van Kossa and Warthin by now? Would you even still be alive? Maybe your crew would have betrayed you for the highest price no matter who it would have been. If the Kid Pirates fully assimilated you into their crew, would you still dwell on the past? Could you ever let it go? Not until those bastards are dead. 

You woke up in a good mood, a great mood even. Why were you being so nostalgic? It was self-sabotage to make yourself upset with old memories. As a kid, you ran the streets under the guise of being a boy, it was safer that way, begging at first, stealing later. In your teen years, you hung around a rough crowd of girls, unable to hide behind short hair anymore. You protected each other from being sold to slavers and fleshtraders, not always successfully. Soon you were the last one left. The others had either left or were killed. You thought about staying, joining another of the gangs that ran the streets. In the end, you watched a girl a bit younger than you be slaughtered by the gang with the most power at the time. That's when you made your decision to get as far away from there as possible, joining the marines, the opposite of that chaos, the good guys. So much for that. 

Thinking of your younger years and your home island conjured up the words to an old song. The world knew it, although every island had its own variations of the verses. The one on your island was fitting for an island dedicated to crime. You hummed the tune as you stared down into the sea, switching to softly singing the words to yourself when it was time for the verse:

Gather up all of the crew, it's time to steal all Binks' brew. We will go, to where, who knows? The loot will be our guide. Robbed behind the tavern's side. Thieves and bandits far and wide. Whores they sing, of lustful things to pirates passing by.

"Where'd ya learn that?" Something about it itched Kid's mind. 

You jumped, not noticing before that Kid had come up beside you. "Sorry. M'not a good singer." 

"Aye. Stick to yer day job."

The man was honest, no doubt about that. "And what is my day job?" You continued staring forward, fixated on the ocean.

Kid looked at you from the corner of his eye. You were looking at the sea with such a mournful gaze. The softness of your features in the mid-morning sun was new to him. Maybe you knew it, or maybe you didn't, you were always guarded. In truth, in your most vulnerable states, Kid still had trouble completely reading you. He could see you with clarity in this moment, a creature of pure melancholy. There was a part of him that wanted to grab the back of your shirt, considering your demeanor was that of someone who wanted to disappear into the waves. You were so lost.

Kid had been drawn to stand next to you in the first place because he saw you watching the ocean, hair reflecting the sun, coat billowing out behind you, and thought that must be how you looked on your own ship some time ago. He thought you would have the fiery gaze he was accustomed to seeing and was taken aback when your face showed the opposite. He would have retreated, except he was pinned in place when he heard the words that you sang to yourself. 

"Yer the doctor of the Kid Pirates." Kid's hand wavered over your shoulder, before lightly cuffing the back of your head. "Don't be stupid." Kid wasn't good at this kind of thing. He wanted to put a hand on your shoulder as a measure of comfort. Thinking it would be odd coming from him, he changed his mind. What he really wanted to do was pull you into his chest and make you forget about the past.

The two of you stayed there for a minute or two in silence. Kid thought he could see the ghost of a smile on your face, a little less lost.

You turned away from him. "I'll be in the crow's nest." 

So soft he could barely hear it, a "Thanks, Kid" came from your direction as you walked away. It may have been the wind, which seemed like it was picking up.

About an hour or two into your watch, it started pouring rain. Not the best of times to volunteer for this job, though you needed time to yourself. The strong wind had it pelting you, so not only was it cold, it sort of hurt, too, like a hundred little projectiles. Kid knew what he was saying, you don't know if he appropriately thought it through or discussed it with anyone else, but he meant it. You could tell because he immediately followed it with something rude, to balance it out. While the rain hid the fact your cheeks had been streaked with tears, it couldn't hide the red stain around the rim of your eyes. You weren't even entirely sure why you were crying. Probably many reasons, all coming out at once. You had felt better afterward. The emotions had been pent up for some time, it seemed. The harsh rain drops and tumultuous sea mirrored you in a way. 

The fabric of your clothes clung to you, cold and wet. Your hair, though weighed down with water, kept whipping you about the face in the strong wind. The boat's rocking was accentuated by the fact you were farther from the center of rotation up in the air. You kept your station, eyes fixated on the horizon on all sides. There were rocky outcroppings ahead, with enough space for a ship to pass through. It didn't sit right with you. You knew that there would be something waiting in the middle. It was only a hunch, no observation haki to back it up. Call it experience. It appeared that you intended to sail right through it if you didn't say something. 

You climbed about halfway down the mast and jumped the rest of the way to the deck. Yelling from the nest would do no good with the wind howling as it was. The sails had been drawn up, so the wind didn't rip them, or worse, bring the mast down. The waves pushed the ship forward even without the sails. You found Wire at the helm with Killer beside him. 

"Hi, Y/N. Why aren't you at your post?" Killer noticed the redness to your eyes. Now wasn't the time to comment on it.

"I don't think we should continue on this course."

Wire acknowledged you with a nod. "Why not?"

"I can't say for sure. Something isn't right."

"We can take shelter from the wind behind the rocks." 

You shook your head. "This stretch is known for bad weather, but it's short. We can sail right through it in another hour." Your eyebrows knit together. "I think they want us to shelter there." You looked at Killer, trying to convince him. 

"We'll only stop until the wind lets up." Killer looked at Wire. "Storms like this don't last long. I can't sense anything ahead that's suspicious."

You looked at Killer, disappointed that they trusted you enough to follow the map you drew, but not enough to take this advice. Maybe you were overreacting and it was nothing. The feeling in your gut told you otherwise. You couldn't argue more without a solid reason. You were doing your best to fall in line, especially with the olive branch Kid extended to you earlier. You gave him a short nod of understanding, though repeating, "I really have a bad feeling." Sometimes trusting your gut trumped observation haki, but you did trust Killer. 

You returned to your spot in the crow's nest, not before grabbing a rifle and a few explosives. If things turned sour, you wanted to be prepared. Using your power, you merged the rifle's bullets with the explosives. It would either blow up in your face or work as intended, exploding bullets. Your gunblade wasn't as good with long range shots, and neither were you. Actually, they probably shouldn't have let your visually impaired ass in the crow's nest to begin with. Minerva stood vigilantly at the base of the mast, as you asked her to. 

In a shorter amount of time than you would have liked, the ship approached the gap in the outcroppings. The water between them was calm, as Wire expected. There weren't any ships there that you could see. You learned a while back that there were a series of metal rudders that Kid could control to stabilize or guide the ship through rough water. It couldn't propel them forward, yet; he was working on that. He must have been using these somewhere to make sure they didn't get smashed into the rocks. 

There were no sounds, save for the echoing of rainwater dripping through cracks in the stone and the roaring waves. There was something else, quieter. Chains? The roar made it hard to hear anything at all. All at once, harpoons were fired from the rock walls, from inside the rock walls. That's why you couldn't see anything. They were huge, made to keep ships trapped in place or be torn apart trying to flee. It happened too quickly for Kid to manipulate them with his fruit, though shortly after, you could see the crackling purple energy that belonged to him try to pull the hooks out without causing too much damage. It was not a fast process. If he pulled them out too roughly, there would be huge holes in the hull. 

Ropes fell from openings too, pirates sliding down and landing on deck. You could see Heat burning through them if he was in range, causing the pirates to either fall into the sea or hastily retreat back into the rock. The canons barely made a dent in the walls. The harpoon guns were anchored to the rocks on the inside. When Kid pulled one out, another was quickly in its place. The next one he pulled, you took aim at the harpoon gun that corresponded to it, praying you wouldn't explode. What a time to test a stupid idea. You pulled the trigger. You didn't explode, but you missed. There was a small explosion in the rock next to the harpoon, which startled the person manning it enough that they didn't reload. That gave you time to shoot again, this time hitting the base of the harpoon gun. The resulting explosion loosened the rock beneath it, and the gun fell into the water. No damage was done to the ship since the harpoon connected to it had already been removed by Kid. 

There were three on each side. One was taken out. Five were left. You only had 2 more explosive bullets. Kid looked up at you and pointed to the middle one on the same side. You gave him a thumbs up. Aiming carefully, you waited until Kid freed the hook and shot, repeating this process for the last harpoon on that side. One side of the ship was released, causing it to drift closer to the other side where it was still attached. Kid pointed to the next one, but looked away before waiting for your thumbs up. There was no way to let him know you didn't have any more special bullets. You could just shoot the operator, however another would take their place, and you didn't even have enough regular bullets for everyone. 

Without Kid focusing on the metal rudders and the loss of the chains on the one side, the ship was rocking more freely. It was hard to see, but the rock face had a narrow path carved into it so people could walk back and forth between stations. You were a bit higher than the shelf. The ship's rocking brought the crow's nest close enough that you could make the jump. There wasn't time to decide if that would be wise, Kid was already working the harpoon out and expecting you to take care of it. If Kid didn't get his full attention back to the rudders, they were going to be smashed against the rock when they tried to get out of there.

You waited until the mast rocked toward the rock face, at the last second using the momentum to make the leap. The rocks were much more slippery than you anticipated and you landed hard into the stone. But you landed. The enemy stared at you open-mouthed, very obviously not expecting anyone to try something like that. Using their stupor, you rushed them and shoved them over the edge. Then you were about to use your power to dislodge the harpoon, when you had a better idea. Quickly, before anyone could get to you, you reloaded the harpoon and aimed it at the next one. The resulting shot caused the ground underneath the middle harpoon to crumble. That's when you realized mistake number one: now you would have to jump across to the next portion. Almost immediately after that, you realized mistake number two: since the harpoon was connected to the one that fell, it was suddenly jerked into the water also, and you felt the ground start to give under your feet. 

Kid looked at the crow's nest to signal you and you weren't there. He looked on deck, thinking you had fallen or jumped. His eyes darted around to find you. Then, the loud rumble of falling rock caused him to look up, and watch you realize your fuck up in real time.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS SHE THINKING?!"

Killer, who had been covering Kid, looked where his captain was looking. "What the fuck?!"

You hauled ass to get to the other side of the gap, jumping at nearly the last second. Drawing your weapon, you jammed the blade into the rock, knowing you didn't jump quite far enough to make it. You clung to the edge and made an attempt to pull yourself up. One of Big Mom's pirates saw you, walking towards you with bad intentions. You should have been scared or anxious or any number of other feelings. In spite of that, you were having fun. A lot of fun really. 

"Watch out!" You warned.

The pirate paused. "For what?" 

"There's a big spike right below you."

He looked down, the flat rock below him. "Nice try." It was glowing strangely. "Wha-?" A spike of rock shot up, impaling him. 

"Told ya." You pulled yourself up the rest of the way and skirted around the dead man.

There was one more harpoon. The Victoria Punk strained against the last hook and Kid was already working to free it. As soon as it was released, the ship surged forward. There was no reason to get rid of the last gun. Though now you were realizing you had no plan to get back on the ship, and it was moving away. It was within jumping distance. Landing distance was a different story. You supposed you could fix your shattered ankles. You saw the chain to the harpoon and used your power to turn sever and shrink the links. If you had more time, you could have formed a better plan, but for now you wrapped the chain around your torso. You stood at the edge of the rock. Finding Kid's face, you pointed to a place in the air. It took him a second to understand, but you saw him give you a thumbs up. This was probably gonna hurt, maybe less than shattered ankles though. You backed up to give yourself a running start, aiming yourself for the spot you pointed to. The metal was heavy as you leapt toward the ship and you fell fast. You didn't care that it was reckless. The wind against you made you wonder if that's what it was like to fly. And the pouring rain made it nearly seem like you were swimming, something you had forgotten how it felt. It was...freeing.

There was a harsh tug, your vision filled with violet, but it didn't hurt nearly as bad as you thought it would as Kid caught you with his devil fruit. You thought the chains would dig into you. Kid had enough finesse and practice to make it smoother you figured. Even better. Your plan was excellent, if only in hindsight. You didn't register you were laughing, flat on your back on the deck. It took a second to reorient yourself, a bit dizzy from jumping, though it was more like free falling. There were several faces above you, one of them very red and very loud. Oh I'm being yelled at.

Crack! The sound of splintering wood acutely grounded you, as the mast leaned toward the deck, specifically toward where you lay. 

Next Chapter

[noknowshame]

started reading Foucault's Madness and Civilization today

text from above:

“Thus we better understand the curious implication as-signed to the navigation of madmen and the prestige attend-ing it. On the one hand, we must not minimize its incon-testable practical effectiveness: to hand a madman over to sailors was to be permanently sure he would not be prowl-ing beneath the city walls; it made sure that he would go far away; it made him a prisoner of his own departure. But water adds to this the dark mass of its own values; it carries off, but it does more: it purifies. Navigation delivers man to the uncertainty of fate; on water, each of us is in the hands of his own destiny; every embarkation is, potentially, the last. It is for the other world that the madman sets sail in his fools' boat; it is from the other world that he comes when he disembarks.

The madman's voyage is at once a rigorous division and an absolute Passage. In one sense, it simply develops, across a half-real, half-imaginary geog-raphy, the madman's liminal position on the horizon of medieval concern-a position symbolized and made real at the same time by the madman's privilege of being confined within the city gates: his exclusion must enclose him; if he cannot and must not have another prison than the thresh-old itself, he is kept at the point of passage. He is put in the interior of the exterior, and inversely. A highly symbolic position, which will doubtless remain his until our own day, if we are willing to admit that what was formerly a visible fortress of order has now become the castle of our conscience.

Water and navigation certainly play this role. Confined on the ship, from which there is no escape, the madman is delivered to the river with its thousand arms, the sea with its thousand roads, to that great uncertainty external to everything. He is a prisoner in the midst of what is the freest, the openest of routes: bound fast at the infinite crossroads.

He is the Passenger par excellence: that is, the prisoner of the passage. And the land he will come to is unknown-as is, once he disembarks, the land from which he comes. He has his truth and his homeland only in that fruitless expanse between two countries that cannot belong to him. Is it this ritual and these values which are at the origin of the long imaginary relationship that can be traced through the whole of Western culture? Or is it, con-versely, this relationship that, from time immemorial, has called into being and established the rite of embarkation? One thing at least is certain: water and madness have long been linked in the dreams of European man.��

[m0llym0shpit]

I used to like to rhyme my lines, separate them into stanzas. but when you read art with your mind, it should speak to you in a way that does not feel cumbersome. there is a certain appeal to crafting poetry in sentences, the way one would craft a story. free verse they call it. the ebb and flow of structured poetry confines meaning to conventional parameters that have stood as a testament of taste. yet, there is also structure in the sentences that comprise free verse. the paradoxical nature of free verse poetry lies within the illusion that it is unstructured; that it has freedom. and while this may appear true, parameters laid out by human language continue to exist even in the freest forms of poetry. it is difficult to convey a message that is not constrained by the limited capabilities of the tongue. so while I may write in free verse, I am disdained by my inability to express the purity of my thoughts. perhaps this is how life imitates art, in the sense that we, knowingly or unknowingly, apply structure to comprehend chaos.

[taylortruther]

Alright this is gonna be wordy and a little all over the place but I love seven so much I will never pass an opportunity to talk about it (this is the first anon, btw)

first, I love anything piano based (my fav insturment <3) and I'm also a big fan of Taylor's head voice.

I think seven is the most unique song she's ever written. In terms of production, lyrics, storytelling and the subject of the song. She's never written anything remotely like this and probably never will. I don't think I've heard anything like it from any other artist as well. The song has a certain type of wisdom in it that everyone knows but few can articulate so beautifully.

I love the fact the production sounds like summer. I wish I had more knowledge in music to properly explain it, but something about that piano-based upbeat melody really takes you back in time to your first summer vacation from school.

I'm a big fan of words, storytelling and poetry so the main reason I love it so much is the lyrics

The "please picture me in the trees" to "please picture me in the weeds"

"I hit my peak at seven" and the little pause before "feet in the swing" because it's both literal and metaphorical. She swung so high she reached seven feet (obviously not really, but she was a kid and they only speak with hyperboles), but she also peaked emotionally at that age - she was the freest she's ever been, a ferocious child not bound by expectations and social norms and voices that implore she should be doing more. Everything in this sing is both literal and metaphorical.

I am so in love with the lyric "are there still beautiful things?" I want to tattoo it. I feel like this lyrics is the thesis of The Catcher In The Rye and I enjoyed the book and I love it when works of literature parallel. It's one of the most relatable lines she's written becasuse are there still beautiful things? Is there anything beautiful in adulthood? Is there still beauty in the world when you can no longer swing so high you fly above your hometown, or when you realize that fairytales and prince charming don't exist? When your life expand beyond the simplicity of drinking sweet tea and braiding your friend's hair, could you ever find this simple, unfiltered joy again?

I have a tattoo referencing "I love you to the moon and to saturn" it's just a very wholesome lyric.

I think knowing Taylor and what she's being through helps appericate this song more because "I used to scream ferociously anytime I wanted" hits different when it comes from the woman who had to sit quietly and politely, and be a good girl as people made jokes on her expense. It's also something she talks about in Marjorie, "Never be so polite, you forget your power / Never wield such power, you forget to be polite" I love the way this part of the song is phrased, the fact it's both "please picture me running through the fields as a child" and "when I was a child I could throw a tantrum in the grocery store". (I just love when Taylor does this, like with the line "your hometown skeptics called it - champagne probelms" it tickles something in my brain). She wants to be remembered in her freest form, rather than what she was forced to grow up into.

And then, obviously, there is the verse discussing child abuse. I know that spoke to many people and I find it beautiful.

I love that even this story within the song helps demonstrate her naïvete. She was so young, she couldn't fathom the idea that a father could be cruel to their child, she had to find another reason and the most logical one was ghosts. And that brings me back to "are there still beautiful things?" because when she was a child the thing that bothered her the most was whether snow white's house is near or far away, and now the questions she asks herself are more like "will I survive this?" "Would they believe me if I come forward?" "Will it be ok?" There is no going back once you learn and experience these kind of things.

I'm obsessed with "I think you should come live with me and we could be pirates, then you won't have to cry" because a. I love pirates and b. It's just so adorable! This lyric makes me wanna eat drywall.

I also really love "though I can recall your face, I still got love for you // just like a folk song, our live will be passed on" It's been so long since she's seen her friend she doesn't actually remember them but this love is still deep inside her and it's passed down onto everything, it's in the sky and in the trees and in the sun. It's the kind of love that never fades. I especially like when she sings "and just like a folk song, out love will be passed on" because I really love the way she sings it.

I've had a blast writing this lol

and i had a blast reading it! thank you so much for sharing, you articulated all of this very beautifully and i think captured why so many fans love it. hugs to you anon :*

[apircteslife]

Star Wars Verse

Mixture of Prequels/Original storyline.

Back before Order 666 was released and the jedi's were attacked by the clone troopers, Gil D Roger was deemed one of the strongest jedi's to have been found by the jedi temple, he was raised by the temple but found love of mischief and mayhem alongside his best friend Silvers Rayleigh.

He and Rayleigh had managed to find a group of like minded individuals, none were gifted with the force like Roger, but all were enjoying the mischief and mayhem; but the thing they enjoyed most was the freedom that their 'crew' felt.

When the order was released, Roger had become a protector to those who couldn't protect themselves, but a rebel in the eyes of the Emperor. Before his name became one known for his 'danger', Roger had come upon two younglings that had survived the cull, taking on Shanks and Buggy as his own; they became more than his padawans, they became his sons.

Shanks and Buggy were best friends and brothers as they grew into the force. Seven years they travelled with the crew that was their family, that had saved them from the ones they once trusted, until the day that Monkey D Garp had come to Roger with a deal.

Garp was from a line of strong force-sensitive individuals, while he himself was not force-sensitive like many of the jedi's were. Due to this, he was trusted to be a high member of the Empire, ignoring the death and destruction as long as the people stayed in line with what the Elder Stars ordered. However, while he believed in justice, he also knew that his own grandson couldn't be found by them.

When realising the power his own grandson had within him, Garp squirreled him away to his own planet, keeping him hidden and safe and unaware of his own strengths.

Luffy grew up alone, only having his 'sister' Makino as company when he was allowed to be near the cantina that she ran, his grandfather disliking when he had people 'babying' him so demanding he stay alone. Until the day the "Red Pirates" appeared on their quiet little planet and spent their days drinking and providing entertainment to everyone around them.

Shanks immediately spotted the potential in Luffy, but he also noticed how reserved he was and how alone he was too.

Shanks went against his better judgement, and the advice of his First Mate, and began to train the little boy with the force.

In the year that he spent on Dawn, Shanks managed to provide his own version of a padawan with the beginnings of his training, teaching him everything but how to wield a saber since Luffy wasn't one who enjoyed using weapons but instead used his hands and force throwing in a fight. While the jedi teachings were of non violence, Roger, Shanks and Luffy definitely weren't within that group.

When Shanks left, minus an arm due to a Sand King going after Luffy because of a bandit being an ass, Luffy was lost until he was sent to live away from the Space Port and Makino.

Years after learning the basics from Shanks, Luffy decided to get his own crew and to follow the footsteps of Shanks and Roger, to become the freest man in Space without even realising that it would end up with him facing down the Empire and the Dark Side.

[todaytrending706]

Exploring the Horizon: Best Free BombBomb Alternatives for Enthralling Video Messaging

Introduction: A New Dawn in Video Messaging

In the vast realm of digital communication, where words often traverse plain text, video messaging emerges as a beacon, breathing life into interactions. BombBomb has long illuminated this path, yet seekers of knowledge and frugality venture further, questing for free alternatives that mirror its essence yet ask less in tribute.

The Quest for Free Alternatives

Why, then, does one search the skies for another star? The reasons are as varied as the stars themselves:

Costly Endeavors: The sails of enterprise often seek harbors less taxing, where the winds of expense blow milder.

Unique Needs, Unique Tools: Every voyage is different; thus, a tool that matches one’s precise course is paramount.

Innovation’s Call: New tools often bring fresh innovations, as each creator adds their spark to the forge.

Charting the Map: Navigating Through Free BombBomb Alternatives

1. Loom: The Weaver’s Delight

Tale of the Tape: Loom offers a tapestry where messages are woven with ease, allowing for quick creation and sharing of video content.

Best For: Weavers of quick tales, educators, and team leaders, who seek to cast their thoughts swiftly across the digital loom.

2. Vidyard: The Storyteller’s Archive

Tale of the Tape: Free to start, Vidyard records and shares your epics, archiving each narrative with analytic precision.

Best For: Chroniclers and marketers, those who not only tell tales but also heed who listens, and from where.

3. Clipchamp: The Craftsman’s Kit

Tale of the Tape: Microsoft’s own, Clipchamp, serves as a toolshed replete with editing tools, effects, and templates free for crafting modest videos.

Best For: Artisans who craft with care, adding flourishes and filters to shape their stories.

The Choosing: Selecting Your Vessel

How then to choose amongst these crafts? As you navigate these waters, let these beacons guide your way:

Cost vs. Features: While free is the wind we chase, ensure it carries the features you need to sail smoothly.

Ease of Use: Seek tools that require no complex charts; simplicity in use ensures a swifter voyage.

Support and Community: Even the freest of tools should not leave you adrift should storms arise. Seek out vibrant communities and accessible helmsmen.

Conclusion: Towards the Horizon

As our poetic journey through the realms of free BombBomb alternatives concludes, may you find the tool that speaks to your spirit, matching both your needs and your purse. Each alternative offers a unique verse in the grand narrative of video communication. Choose with wisdom, use with joy, and let your messages fly true across the digital seas.

[the-hem]

"The First Entity." From the Maha Upanishad, the Exploration of the Mysteries of the Atman.

V-57. ‘As an immense rock, covered with main lines and sub-lines, learn to regard the one Brahman with the three worlds superposed on It.

V-58. ‘Now it has been known that this problem world is not produced, as there is no second entity to serve as a cause. This alluring (world) may be looked upon as a marvel.

V-59. ‘Long agitated (as I have been, now) I am at rest; there is nothing other than pure Spirit. Laying aside all doubts, discarding all sense of wonder, behold !

The Book of Acts, 2: 1-22 has an amazing cohort to the above verses. It states mankind will use its faculties to engineer one Concept of God that will allow us to serve Him anywhere, in any language, in all the ways He explained in all the scriptures:

The Holy Spirit Comes at Pentecost

2 When the day of Pentecost came, they were all together in one place.

 2 Suddenly a sound like the blowing of a violent wind came from heaven and filled the whole house where they were sitting. 

3 They saw what seemed to be tongues of fire that separated and came to rest on each of them. 4 All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other tongues[a] as the Spirit enabled them.

5 Now there were staying in Jerusalem God-fearing Jews from every nation under heaven. 

6 When they heard this sound, a crowd came together in bewilderment, because each one heard their own language being spoken. 

7 Utterly amazed, they asked: “Aren’t all these who are speaking Galileans? 

8 Then how is it that each of us hears them in our native language? 

9 Parthians, Medes and Elamites; residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia,[b] 

10 Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya near Cyrene; visitors from Rome 

11 (both Jews and converts to Judaism); Cretans and Arabs—we hear them declaring the wonders of God in our own tongues!” 

12 Amazed and perplexed, they asked one another, “What does this mean?”

13 Some, however, made fun of them and said, “They have had too much wine.”

14 Then Peter stood up with the Eleven, raised his voice and addressed the crowd: “Fellow Jews and all of you who live in Jerusalem, let me explain this to you; listen carefully to what I say. 

15 These people are not drunk, as you suppose. It’s only nine in the morning! 16 No, this is what was spoken by the prophet Joel:

17 “‘In the last days, God says,     I will pour out my Spirit on all people. Your sons and daughters will prophesy,     your young men will see visions,     your old men will dream dreams. 18 Even on my servants, both men and women,     I will pour out my Spirit in those days,     and they will prophesy. 19 I will show wonders in the heavens above     and signs on the earth below,     blood and fire and billows of smoke. 20 The sun will be turned to darkness     and the moon to blood     before the coming of the great and glorious day of the Lord. 21 And everyone who calls     on the name of the Lord will be saved.’[c]

We cannot fail to take advantage of the amazing opportunity our modern world has been given to call upon the Name of God in the performance of the work needed to be done to restore sound government, especially in America, end all the wars, house millions of refugees, and establish a fool proof model for life on earth.

President Biden is not doing his job. The Mormons and Republicans are running us into the abyss. Vladimir Putin is obviously not doing his job. The Chinese are warping and wrecking this planet as rapidly and as insidiously as possible. Instead of purpose, there is persecution everywhere. We are not road kill, laid out on the road to Heaven by the Russians, Mormons, Hamas and Chinese for their horrific pleasure.

Every life has a value and a purpose and this prophecy in the Book of Acts, which is coming true now, explains how to find it and make use of each one. We must not waste any more time doing so. Together, the freest and sanest persons on this planet can force the world's malfunctioning governments out of power and make them do the work God created them to do.

[alphareleasemedia]

The White-Tailed Hornet -- Robert Frost

The white-tailed hornet lives in a balloon That floats against the ceiling of the woodshed. The exit he comes out at like a bullet Is like the pupil of a pointed gun. And having power to change his aim in flight, He comes out more unerring than a bullet. Verse could be written on the certainty With which he penetrates my best defense Of whirling hands and arms about the head To stab me in the sneeze-nerve of a nostril. Such is the instinct of it I allow. Yet how about the insect certainty That in the neighborhood of home and children Is such an execrable judge of motives As not to recognize in me the exception I like to think I am in everything-- One who would never hang above a bookcase His Japanese crepe-paper globe for trophy? He stung me first and stung me afterward. He rolled me off the field head over heels And would not listen to my explanations.

That's when I went as visitor to his house. As visitor at my house he is better. Hawking for flies about the kitchen door, In at one door perhaps and out another, Trust him then not to put you in the wrong. He won't misunderstand your freest movements. Let him light on your skin unless you mind So many prickly grappling feet at once. He's after the domesticated fly To feed his thumping grubs as big as he is. Here he is at his best, but even here-- I watched him where he swooped, he pounced, he struck; But what he found he had was just a nailhead. He struck a second time. Another nailhead. "Those are just nailheads. Those are fastened down." Then disconcerted and not unannoyed, He stooped and struck a little huckleberry The way a player curls around a football. "Wrong shape, wrong color, and wrong scent," I said. The huckleberry rolled him on his head. At last it was a fly. He shot and missed; And the fly circled round him in derision. But for the fly he might have made me think He had been at his poetry, comparing Nailhead with fly and fly with huckleberry: How like a fly , how very like a fly. But the real fly he missed would never do; The missed fly made me dangerously skeptic.

Won't this whole instinct matter bear revision? Won't almost any theory bear revision? To err is human, not to, animal. Or so we pay the compliment to instinct, Only too liberal of our compliment That really takes away instead of gives. Our worship, humor, conscientiousness Went long since to the dogs under the table. And served us right for having instituted Downward comparisons. As long on earth As our comparisons were stoutly upward With gods and angels, we were men at least, But little lower than the gods and angels. But once comparisons were yielded downward, Once we began to see our images Reflected in the mud and even dust, 'Twas disillusion upon disillusion. We were lost piecemeal to the animals, Like people thrown out to delay the wolves. Nothing but fallibility was left us, And this day's work made even that seem doubtful.

[captainkurosolaire]

Budokai 3 Finale: Bury or Surface

(C.F) Thunder Fists - (1.) ♫Black Water♫ / (2.) ♫Welcome To Hell♫

The Sixth Layer and final Hell of Earth. Here lies the burial thieves and defiles of nature, liars and revisionists. Water rampantly surged below as a flood was approaching them now. A single solitary rope came and dropped down on the side above. Where life nestled. Their close crewmates, the lives they had beyond this pit that nearly had beaten out of another to remember. Up above that single rope. Was a haven they shouldn’t forget to cherish. What laid was their reward for every hardship thus far, a continued flourish of life! To remain stuck below, was a nameless end and be buried in depths they fittingly deserved. The most tribunal death-match was brought back, but some traditions are always better left forgotten. Sickly they felt under the pressure. Flayed skin and marred by their disgusting sins. Liberation in the very cosmic souls they held, weighed. As the now ancient astrologist once rattled on to an old kingly sailor what to expect. This was the Endwalk.

Dehydrated and unsteady limbs the cladded black mane, Seeker the only man remaining still barely on his feet, began making his walk out of stamina to even run the remainder of the marathon. Blood loss made him hear lunatic sounds, heightened and labored breathing, he felt his body almost astrally leaving him and as if he was outside of it already, just another spectator trying to root on. His heart palpitations were drumming vigorously. As his fingertips once again took that reach all but yet familiar. Remembering a tyme he tried snatching a star that was abducted from him. Or washing ashore in the Black Shrouds with no identity, only a feral outlook. A savageness to eat, rip, or be torn by the fellow beasts. Nomadic he became, to a point the animals that once hunted and he hunted became more similar that the people of Gridania raised bows and torches against him. Eventually splitting his soul and losing a chunk out of it. But without something filling that void other half on a fateful, he wouldn’t have survived. And here once again, the same thing happened. Every-time, his reach was consistently inadequate to hold anything of importance, no matter the key, or how hard he kept it close to his chest. He couldn’t measure up. Like, dark poetry his body collapsed in a heap right as it touched his only escape out of hell. This world with no mistake about it was reserved for strength. As the new ushering age pitched up to his feet, Sinbad took his lurching advancements to ascension. Valiantly is the fallen, and the Miqo’te attempted to reintroduce a new verse in history. Where stature, upbringing, power wasn’t the entire equation of what gave ripples to the seas. Sluggard pace the champion of five seas made until finally gingerly grappled at his rightful claim and took the rope and was wrapping it around his waist and making a harness to propel himself up the climb. A ruckus was spewed back between both crew’s as they were reacting loudly and fighting one another in shouting for their Captain’s to get up and win, or even better, live to another day. The low breathing scoundrel with a welt and swelled up eyelid and face that was all smashed in looked to the sky and saw shade silhouettes. As thoughts traversed and mind raced his heartbeat and breathing contesting to stay afloat on the bed of water feeling up and drawing up to his ears turning those chants and drowning them. To conqueror or to be conquered. Treasures. Landmarks. Even people, or… oneself. He recalled a fragmented memory of his Captain asking him young what is it he wanted? Dreams came to mind with a childish voice, goal as per usual in youth. To hold a head higher than all the rest. Stand the tallest amongst a sea of giants. To lead a wildly diverse crew as the freest band in renown. What was the thing that always, every turn cost him, the nightmare. Himself. He finally accepted it in that moment, he'd become a conqueror.  But he wasn’t after landmarks, or a lick of glint. Nah. All that was insignificantly less. Valueless. It’d all fall in line. He wanted to chart and conquer his own being. To find the extents of every fucking miserable sack of flaw written and scarred into him and accept it. This pit? It suddenly felt inviting and a secondary home to be fond, but he couldn’t stay here. His spirit erupted and he pieced himself together and got up with grit in his facial features, the desperation on the line. Sinbad halfway up and out suddenly felt a pull of his legs in weight as a clawing fiend, he thought left behind gone and buried was clawing out. A resistance of kicks was trying to knock him off but the Seeker leapt up and wasn’t going to hold out his ticket out of here. The Miqo’te appeared on the side as they took turns bashing each other trying to knock the other out with shoves, kicks, punches.  “I can’t lose mate!” As the Seeker grappled a fist full of hair and bashed the Highlander’s head into the wall. He teetered but shot back, “You can’t win either!” The feline acrobatically jumped slightly up above the top of the rope ahead of Sinbad and now had the driver seat above. Clinging tightly with a leveraged forearm behind the rope and using his one good. Sinbad had his nerves rocked, reaching and grabbing that pitiful creature’s tail and yanking it aside now with two ropes. The water quickly was chasing them up. The Seeker stomped back to try shaking himself free as he fought his tail being yanked and taken until landing a decent hit to the face of Sinbad who was forced backward and his hold, rogue slipped past and was passing the brute by. Half his body made it to the edge as the Seeker was nearly up. As his own pants and ankle was grabbed by the long wingspan and reach of a true successor to the next generation of pirates and was getting whacked and assaulted to damage the lower limbs. Clung back with a burning resolve. The Seeker shimmy with his hips and waist his belt-buckle removed earlier he took no shame in discarding him of his pants into his briefs. Breaking free and moving himself up to the tip-top of the climb. Crawl pathetically like an insect! Came back to mind and frame as the Seeker saw his Crew behind the thicket and line, the grail. The giant following short pursuit behind. The Miqo’te tried standing up but instantly collapsed, his limbs were giving out all his strength left was to use his chin and elbows to scoot up and wiggle forth. A sudden sizable rock hit square in the back with a violent bash as it grounded him. The Highlander had reached out of the pit as well and used that hit to grab the ankle and pull backward the rogue as he advanced over him with power coming back into control and play. Trampling over the wretched pirate and now he took the leading position so close at the final-stretch. Unlike Solaire, he could properly regroup and stand and just rush himself to victory. Which he started to recollect and draw himself up. It was to blink a moment and miss it. Kuro slammed his forearms and pushed himself up. He was so far behind and couldn’t cover that distance by walking. Soaring past him and almost cheering him up, the remarkable butterfly, after all its consistent effort, was finally flying from its wounded wing. A spiritual guide! He spun his back questionably and faced the wrong direction of the finish line and drew up his finger into a gun and aimed it at the soils. His entire sight blurring and body washing over in waves. Channeling his aether into a single point. Time to take a shot, a golden shot. With all his last ditch effort he catapulted and launched himself off the ground, unable to use his legs and one arm. As he came barreling to the standing Sinbad who was a few steps away he drew his elbow out and it bashed directly into the back of the neck, knocking out the Highlander from making that huge step, as they both stopped and collapsed and crashed. His back shredded against the ground. Stunned crew collapsed on their knees and each grabbed their skulls. Who the hell won. The representative of the last Budokai stepped in to officiate with clarity. “Outstanding! Both competitors had succeeded past the threshold of the finish line! ...Although the Winner of the Third Budokai and Six Layers is… Captain Van Sinbad!” But he was completely unconscious and out of it the victor had no ability to celebrate. The reason for the easy decision was that Sinbad’s whole body had gotten over the goal line, while only half of the Miqo’te surpassed it, ilm’s literally away and there could’ve been a decisive draw. Incidentally by Kuro’s last choice to strike out his competitor it was a small enough error that halted his own movement in the process. Yet undeniably it was likely he would have not been able to avoid the next step Sinbad was going to take regardless. Crew of the Young Sinbad exploded in vibrancy as they rushed to collect their leader and haul him to medical attention and now they further cemented themselves in accolades. His beloved harlot kissed him passionately and stroked the cheeks of the fallen winner. As the loser was left to once again lament. He didn’t win again. Worst of all, his Crew that agreed to this would suffer the terms. Despite wanting and needing to win and finding a new direction from those trials, he faltered. But something was different about this entire loss. Most of his Crew warmly rejoiced around him. As he mouths a barely coherent apology. Gark, the one who threatened if he was ever caught moping Captain again or sulking one he’d pummel said, “Why are you apologizing kid? That was bloody-awesome! A helluva show!” Sheik Sphere his Bard, “Thou beloved Captain fret not, I personally was captivated! I could hear the strings of your heart. Indeed a symphony that called to thine own!” While clutching symbolically to his chest rhythmically. The First Crewmate Judas stepped in who was often relatively calculated and genuine with truth no matter how it may come harshly. “You gave it all, more apparent, you lived… Consider what was expected in a deathmatch. I believe the Crew had no doubts or needed further convincing. We’ll win one of these waves and when it transpires, we’ll never stop.” He whistled in a stretcher to the medical assistance from the tent nearby. A sea roe stepped in with praying hands drawn together, “For you to live was all I could’ve wished.” With a tear jerk of genuineness. An envious brethren figure in a Raen with a snarky comment under his breath, “Pfft, I could’ve won…” As he slurped on a huge jug of whiskey and had a motor fan just to help himself from the sheer heat and light himself a cigar. Truthfully Captain was his hero and wanted to be better than him. With envy and greed though of course strongly. Sol was the best type to assume he’d betray but many would be deceived in his loyalty of recent. But none could ever possibly know his real feelings. Casta could share somewhat that sentiment that she actually was rescued a long time ago, or multiple and often wrote fictions about Captain this was something no different. But she rushed over and cried on his chest. “Don’t w-worry I promise to put you back together! Better than ever.” She worried and blamed herself with insecurities. She tried to fix his nagging injuries after he was assaulted and gave him a placebo pill that suddenly ‘cure’ to try giving him clarity he could fight in this. Cause she knew how important this showdown was to him. But she had just put recognition that maybe this was on her. Not knowing no matter what this wasn’t something for debate or could’ve been evaded. He would’ve showed up and fought regardless. He couldn’t have backed out of this. That’s not how the agreed creeds work. Kuro was depleted and patted her head, “I trust your capable hands, you can’t fail me. Da..mn… I fer th’ longest, reminded unavoidable curses I lay with. But now I’ve got a taste of a bles..s..in’.” Giving her once more reassurance and his Crew before slipping into his own critical slumber. The remainder of his band voiced their own but did so as he was out and strapped up to essential IV fluids and medical appliances. The future shock would be coming in the next Moon’s to follow, And cultivate a year of tumultuous undertaking.

[dustedmagazine]

Bevis Frond — Little Eden (Fire Records)

Little Eden by The Bevis Frond

For freaks of a certain age and inclination, the appearance of a new record by the Bevis Frond is a sort of life event. They’re the same sort of freaks that can index the Anglo-American cultural gestalt of whole decades in relation to Bevis Frond releases: the fuzz-drenched insularity of the early records (Inner Marshlands or Triptych) quaked with the 1980s’ inbent socio-political horror, and the clutch of subsequent pro-studio-made recordings (the excellent New River Head or Sprawl) shimmered and gleamed in the 1990s’ little bubble of plenitude. And so on. So, what about this latest record, also a polished product of professional studio tech, made with an experienced backing band? Like our current conjuncture, Little Eden is a sharp mix of contrasting tones and messages. Record opener “Everyone Rise” has the warm ebullience of other upbeat, hook-rich Bevis Frond songs, from the magisterial “Down in the Well” (1990) to “Silver Dart” (2002). But then “And Away We Go” downshifts to a grim, doomy pace. Nick Saloman, who essentially embodies the Bevis Frond, sings, “Peace made? / No / Debts paid? / No / Regrets? / No / Thought so.” By Saloman’s standards, the lyric is laconic, bordering on silence, and its negations intensify the song’s bummed-out mood. Four minutes later “Brain Fatigue” bounces out of the gate, with nearly cartoonish energy and a pranksome melody. Saloman chirps (inasmuch as his North Londoner’s voice can produce a chirp), “I’m covering the hits / I’m dancing in the street / I’m looking like a true Renaissance man.” What gives?

Not to be glib, but: 2021. Little Eden pulls off one of Saloman’s best tricks: the record is unerringly faithful to the Bevis Frond aesthetic, a stable sonic construct for some 35 years, and it’s also cleverly responsive to our collective cultural moment. 2021 is giving many of us serious brain fatigue, but the song is even more precisely in tune with the current weirdness; Saloman sings, “I’m working for the State / I secretly enrolled / I’m heading up an undercover ring.” Is that you, Q? For sure, the hyperbolically enthused tone of Saloman’s singing dramatizes the fizzy psychological space of conspiratorial paranoia. That feels like 2021, and so does the brief bit of darkness in the opening verse of “Everyone Rise,” in which we are warned of dire consequences if we don’t “behave politely and obey the scary clown.” Is that you, Boris? 

Those socio-political gestures are engaging, but the most substantial pleasures on Little Eden result from listening to Saloman, now in his seventh decade, write so clearly, sing so evocatively and play so emotively. The voice is a touch less strong, and the fretwork is a wee bit less fleet (but only a wee bit; Saloman can still play). Those small shifts in the sound of the Bevis Frond map onto Saloman’s place in life’s arc, and he occasionally nods to his age with characteristic pathos and wryness. On the yearning, ardent “They Will Return,” he sings, “Now you’ve got grown-up children / With children of their own / They live in distant places / With no time for the folks back home / They don’t really want to listen / To much of what you’ve got to say / But you still find yourself wishing / They didn’t live so far away.” The isolation and alienation suffered by many older people during the pandemic is hinted at, but mostly the verse feels like Saloman reporting on the push and pull of family dynamics from an elder’s perspective. That’s not a commonplace instance in rock, and the simplicity of the lyric and the sincerity of his singing give the song surprising, gutty force. Counter to that are the hard-psych intensities and cranky snarl of “Start Burning,” which celebrates astringencies both attitudinal and artistic. The song includes some of the record’s prickliest lyrics (“I keep my glass half full but there’s something dead / Floating in it”) and sharpest soloing, sounds of Bevis past that demonstrate what Saloman’s hands can still create. 

His sense for how to structure and sequence a record is just as smart as ever. At the exact midpoint of Little Eden — the tenth of its 20 songs, of which many are flat-out great: those already mentioned above, the title track, “Do Without Me,” “Pasted All Over,” “There’s Always Love,” and so on — he hits us with “As I Lay Down to Die.” The song is as elegiac as its title sounds, and it’s a grim experience, all things considered, and Little Eden would be a very different record if that was its last song. Instead, at the record’s close, he gives us “Dreams of Flying,” ten minutes of what feels like urgent cheerleading for the world’s dwindling resources of goodwill and wild, joyful reverie. We get some patented Bevis Frond dual-track soloing, featuring some of record’s freest playing, and a near-breathless refrain: “Hang on to your trust in star signs / They may help you through the hard times / Hang on to your dreams of flying / Don’t you ever give up trying.” Saloman surely hasn’t — and thanks, man. In these sick, sick times, the Bevis Frond is a gift for the ears, and balm for the soul. 

Jonathan Shaw

[poetrex]

There is no freedom from metre, only mastery.

T. S. Eliot said that, or something like it— put even the freest verse behind bars. Does my heart still beat in time? Then tell me no lie of commission: nothing in this life is mine to keep, but a poem stands on one foot, holding sunset door that says you can stay the night here: window on a moonglint bed soft to fall asleep & dream what morningmirth will bury— addresses will have changed where events have taken place in a different house on another street— & this is how we forget & why that hallway goes on forever. All my life I have become a tree; it is not difficult to fly, even in this petrified being. Then put me back into the piny bog— there germinate a keyhole voice to mirror rooms that wait & nothing had but branching windowsill above the well where we all are lost. * * * Written March 2020.

[wordsdrippinginink]

The Hinata we deserved ending up in the OP verse?

“You’re real lost. How’d you get past Dadan and her men?” the boy asks, hanging upside down from a branch in front of her, high enough to be out of reach should she not use chakra, but close enough to give the illusion that he trusts her. “She never lets anyone come to visit.”

“Maybe I’m sneakier than you give me credit for. I’m Hinata.”

He kicks his feet, hanging on with just his hands for a moment before twisting to sit upright on the branch, “Are you?”

“Am I?” Hinata asks, waiting for him to elaborate.

“Hinata. You can say you’re Hinata, but are you really? Maybe you made it up.”

Hinata laughs, shaking her head, “My name is Hinata, what’s yours?”

“Ace. You look real lost.”

“I am. Very, very lost. Can you tell me where I am, Ace? Or, if you can’t, can you ask your parents where we are?” Hinata knows she said something wrong when Ace’s mouth goes hard and white. “Ace?”

“Dadan’s the only person who takes care of me. You’re on Dawn Island in East Blue. It’s the most boring of the Blues, for all that the biggest names, both criminal and otherwise, come from here.”

Hinata doesn’t frown, because those names mean nothing to her, “Thank you, Ace. It seems I’m even more lost than I first thought. Do you know how long I’ve been here?”

Ace’s suspicious now, eyes narrowed and his weight shifting on the branch the same way that Hinata used to when debating fleeing or attacking, “I found you an hour ago. But I came through here this morning and you weren’t here then.”

“Thank you very much.”

“Are you a marine?” Ace asks finally, looking resigned and nervous.

Hinata laughs, “No, I’m a ninja. Are you a marine?”

“No. I’m going to be a pirate.”

“Why?”

“Because pirates are free. The freest people ever. Why are you a ninja?” Ace asks curiously. He reminds her of Neji and Hanabi. At least a little bit, enough to make her homesick now that she’s found nothing to point to where she’s from. “Is it because you like it?”

“I don’t know,” Hinata admits, sitting down again, to watch him better. “Someone told me, a very long time ago, that I had to be a ninja and I wanted to make them proud, so I did.”

“Do you like it?”

Hinata laughs, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes to try and stop her tears, “I don’t think that I do. Being a ninja killed a lot of people that I love, but it was also the only way to protect them.”

“Gramps,” Ace pauses, clearing his throat, his voice softer. “He always said that doing something to protect someone you love was a sacrifice,” he pauses, like he’s considering his words. “And sometimes you have to. He says that’s why my mom died.”

“It doesn’t make it hurt less.”

“No.”

Hinata wipes her eyes, taking a deep breath, “Tell me more about this place?”

“You could ask someone else.”

“I’m asking you, unless you don’t want to.”

Ace shakes his head, once sharply, “I’ll tell you. But we need a map. Don’t move, I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be here,” Hinata promises, Byakugan activating as soon as he’s out of sight, following him through the trees. “Orphans in forests, at least Konoha did better than that with Naruto. Even if they still treated him like a monster.”

[zintranslations]

Give Me a Reason to Forget / 給我一個理由忘記

By A-Lin / 黃麗玲

[VERSE 1] the rain's stopped; what's this sky still doing grey? i still remember you said we have to be happy late night footsteps are always piercing to the ears afraid to be lonely, i'll let this noisy city turn the lights off with me

[PRE-CHORUS] it's just that no matter how many people are around i still feel completely alone every time i smile my heart is still viciously crying

[CHORUS] Give me a reason to forget the me who loves you so much Give me a reason to give up the decision made that time Some love—the more you pull away the clearer it becomes and the most painful distance is you being not by my side but still in my heart

[VERSE 2] when i walk through the places we've been i always hear that freest laugh of yours when i return to where i live alone i'm most afraid of seeing your favorite winter coat again

[REPEAT PRE-CHORUS & CHORUS]

[CHORUS 2] i can't find a reason to forget the goodbye in the downpour i can't find a reason to give up my determination to wait for you Some love—the more you pull away the clearer it becomes and the most painful distance is you being not by my side but still in my heart

I miss you

雨都停了 這片天灰什麼呢 我還記得 你說我們要快樂 深夜裡的腳步聲 總是刺耳 害怕寂寞 就讓狂歡的城市陪我關燈 只是哪怕周圍再多人 感覺還是一個人 每當我笑了 心卻狠���的哭著 給我一個理由忘記 那麼愛我的你 給我一個理由放棄 當時做的決定 有些愛 越想抽離卻越更清晰 而最痛的距離 是你不在身邊 卻在我的心裡 當我走在 去過的每個地方 總會聽到 你那最自由的笑 當我回到 一個人住的地方 最怕看到冬天你最愛穿的那件外套 只是哪怕周圍再多人 感覺還是一個人 每當我笑了 心卻狠狠的哭著 給我一個理由忘記 那麼愛我的你 給我一個理由放棄 當時做的決定 有些愛 越想抽離卻越更清晰 而最痛的距離 是你不在身邊 卻在我的心裡 我找不到理由忘記 大雨裡的別離 我找不到理由放棄 我等你的決心 有些愛 越想抽離卻越更清晰 而最痛的距離 是你不在身邊 卻在我的心裡 我想你

[rhianna]

Section II.—The Style of Byron's Poetry

Byron was a poet, but in his own way—a strange way, like that in which he lived. There were internal tempests within him, avalanches of ideas, which found issue only in writing. He wrote: "I have written from the fulness of my mind, from passion, from impulse, from many motives, but not 'for their sweet [Pg 110]voices.' To withdraw myself from myself has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all—and publishing also the continuance of the same object, by the action it affords to the mind, which else recoils upon itself." He wrote almost always with astonishing rapidity, "The Corsair" in ten days, "The Bride of Abydos" in four days. While it was printing he added and corrected, but without recasting: "I told you before that I can never recast anything. I am like the tiger. If I miss the first spring, I go grumbling back to my jungle again; but if I do it, it is crushing."[168] Doubtless he sprang, but he had a chain: never, in the freest flight of his thoughts, did he liberate himself from himself. He dreams of himself, and sees himself throughout. It is a boiling torrent, but hedged in with rocks. No such great poet has had so narrow an imagination; he could not metamorphose himself into another. They are his own sorrows, his own revolts, his own travels, which, hardly transformed and modified, he introduces into his verses. He does not invent, he observes; he does not create, he transcribes. His copy is darkly exaggerated, but it is a copy. "I could not write upon anything," says he, "without some personal experience and foundation." We will find in his letters and note-books, almost feature for feature, the most striking of his descriptions. The capture of Ismail, the shipwreck of Don Juan, are, almost word for word, like two accounts of it in prose. If none but cockneys could attribute to him the crimes of his heroes, none but blind men could fail to see in him the sentiments of his characters. This is so true that he has not created more than one. Childe Harold, Lara, the Giaour, the Corsair, Manfred, Sardanapalus, Cain, Tasso, Dante, and the rest, are always the same—one man represented under various costumes, in several lands, with different expressions; but just as painters do, when, by change of garments, decorations, and attitudes, they draw fifty portraits from the same model. He meditated too much upon himself to be enamored of anything else. The habitual sternness of his will prevented his mind from being flexible; his force, always concentrated for effort and bent upon strife, shut him up in self-contemplation, and reduced him never to make a poem, save of his own heart.

What style would he adopt? With these concentrated and [Pg 111]tragic sentiments he had a classical mind. By the strangest mixture, the books which he preferred were at once the most violent or the most proper, the Bible above all: "I am a great reader and admirer of those books (the Bible), and had read them through and through before I was eight years old; that is to say, the Old Testament, for the New struck me as a task, but the other as a pleasure."[169] Observe this word: he did not relish the tender, and self-denying mysticism of the gospel, but the cruel sternness and lyrical outcries of the old Hebrews. Next to the Bible he loved Pope, the most correct and formal of men:

"As to Pope, I have always regarded him as the greatest name in our poetry. Depend upon it, the rest are barbarians. He is a Greek Temple, with a Gothic Cathedral on one hand, and a Turkish Mosque and all sorts of fantastic pagodas and conventicles about him. You may call Shakspeare and Milton pyramids, but I prefer the Temple of Theseus or the Parthenon to a mountain of burnt brickwork.... The grand distinction of the under-forms of the new school of poets is their vulgarity. By this I do not mean they are coarse, but shabby-genteel."[170]   [110-111]

[risalei-nur]

TAFSIR: Risale-i Nur: The Words Collection:The Thirty Second Word .Part 7

Given this, each living being’s cells, corpuscles, limbs, and nerves are under His command, at His disposal, and move according to His laws. Since this is so, all particles or atoms, the essential building blocks consti-tuting all creatures and their parts as well as being the means for their design and formation, are in His Power’s grasp and His Knowledge’s sphere. They move most regularly and perform perfect duties by His command, per-mission, and strength.

 Since every atom moves and functions by His law, permission, and command, then most certainly, it is His Knowledge and Wisdom that dis-tinguish each face by making it unique, their sounds and tongues differ. Consider this verse that, in mentioning only the first and most universal link and the last and most individualized one, points to this chain of cre-ation and the series of His signs in creation: Among His signs is the creation of the heavens and the earth, and the variety of your languages and colors. Indeed, in this are signs for those who know (30:22).

 Now we say: “O representative of those associating partners with God! These evidences are as strong as the chains of creation, which point to an Absolutely Powerful One and prove His Unity.”

Since the creation of the heavens and the earth shows an All-Powerful Maker and His boundless and infinitely perfect Power, certainly, He is absolutely independent of partners. While He has no need for them, why do you follow the dark way of associating partners with Him? As He has no partners in His Divinity, any partnership in His Lordship and creativity is impossible. The Power of the Maker of the universe and the earth is bound-less and infinitely perfect, and everything is equal before It. If there were a partner, this would require that a limited power defeat a boundless and infi-nitely perfect power, or somehow limit it and infect it with incapacity. Such assertions are completely untenable.

 There is no need for partners, and their supposed existence is incon-ceivable. Therefore, claiming partnership is no more than forced and arbi-trary judgments that cannot be substantiated by reason or logic. It is a prin-ciple of theology and methodology that any probability or possibility not arising from evidence cannot be considered, and that it does not injure conviction or certainty based on knowledge. For example, it is theoretical-ly conceivable that Lake Eðridir might change into oil or grape juice or a heavy syrup. But since this is a mere possibility raised on the basis of no cir-cumstantial evidence, it does not harm our certainty that the lake is water.

Similarly, we have asked each part of the universe: from atoms to stars in the First Station, and from the creation of the heavens and the earth to the variety of tongues and uniquely identification of each face in the Second Station. Each part testified to God’s Oneness and shows the stamp of His Unity. Therefore there is no circumstantial sign upon which any partnership with God could be found. Given that this claim is forced, meaningless, and insubstantial, all such claims are clear nonsense and pure ignorance.

 Question: Those who reject Divine Unity raise another objection: Everything depends on a cause and takes place according to the cycle of cause and effect. Since causality is apparent throughout the universe, causes must have a part in the creation and operation of things. If they have a part, they may be partners.

 Answer: As required by Divine Will and Wisdom, and as the Divine Names tend to manifest themselves, results are made dependent on causes. However, as is convincingly argued in the Risale-i Nur, causes have no cre-ative effect. Here we add the following:

 Conscious beings are the most effective causes in bringing about effects. Humanity, which has a free and most comprehensive willpower and a vast field in which to exercise it, is the most elevated conscious being. Speaking, thinking, and eating are the most apparent acts arising from our free will. They include numerous well-ordered chains of events, but only one is directly connected to our free will. For example, out of all the processes related to eating from the formation of food to its becoming nour-ishment in cells, only chewing them depends on free will. In the case of speaking, free will is limited to inhaling and exhaling the air needed by the vocal organs to produce sounds. A word is like a seed in the mouth, becomes like a tree when uttered, produces millions of fruits that resemble that single word, and enters millions of ears. We can only imagine this mul-tiplication, free will has nothing more to do with it after it has been said.

If humanity, the most honored cause and agent, the freest in using will, has no part in creation, how can nature (e.g., inanimate objects, ele-ments, plants, animals) have any real effect or part in creation? How can natural laws, which have no consciousness, will, or knowledge and only a nominal existence, originate such a miraculous system as the universe, the creation and operation of which require infinite knowledge, will, and power? How can they create a miraculous living, conscious, speaking, rea-soning, thinking, and learning organism like a man or a woman?