Jan 28, 2017

He tore out the heart

What made America greater than this:

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame
With conquering limbs astride from land to land
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

„Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!“ cries she
With silent lips. „Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.

Emma Lazarus, 1883 
Statue of Liberty

Jan 2, 2017

Dead, right?

Sometimes you are alive. Sometimes you are dead.
Well, you feel like it.
Which is strange. Because, I suppose, when you are dead - how does it feel? Deadish? I thought the whole concept of being dead is that all that conscious stuff - and very much so the 'feeling'-thingy - vanishes.
Exactly what you sometimes yearn for.
When you are too destroyed to get up, for example. New-Years' morning, when you feel like you are dead. Well.
We talked about it.
So.
My blog was dead.
When I had to renew my payment-details I got trapped in some super-smart login loop, that always told me to renew my payment-details before I could log-in to go to... you got the idea.
Now I got some reanimation done and there we go again.
Life looks much better now.
Even though some things look very non-ok.
But let's not talk politics.
Or emotional, private stuff.
thanx.