rootsfan
I summer where I winter
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That's from "Extras", an HBO series starring Ricky Gervais (star of the original, British version of The Office).
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- Thread starter AtFirstSight
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AtFirstSight
If You Only Knew
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That was utterly amazing. Glad it wasn't real, though. That would ruin my vision of Clive. Mmm King Arthur. *drool*
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BradBigBrain
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Excellent show. I can't believe how PO'd I was at Ricky's character...only to make me understand at the end. Great job.
AtFirstSight
If You Only Knew
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rootsfan
I summer where I winter
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BradBigBrain
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oh you think, huh? gonna sleep on it
Would you like to sleep it....whatever IT is? Please sleep on it.
AtFirstSight
If You Only Knew
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Hey, he could be like that in real life, you never know. Or gay.
Why are you trying to ruin every dream I've ever had? So cruel.
Next thing you know you'll tell me that Patrick Dempsey has ridiculous hair
AtFirstSight
If You Only Knew
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Well whatever IT is, I couldn't sleep on it last night. Damn I'm tired.
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BradBigBrain
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Idigsoftclams
Salty
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from right to left, with long emphasis on the left!
AtFirstSight
If You Only Knew
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EvilMcMonkey
Really Really Experienced
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Faime
Literotica Guru
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oh you think, huh? gonna sleep on it
No love, don't even have to sleep a wink to know
AtFirstSight
If You Only Knew
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If you're looking for volunteers...
Deal. You get to be line leader. Who wants the caboose? I mean...who wants to be the caboose?
EvilMcMonkey
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rootsfan
I summer where I winter
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Why are you trying to ruin every dream I've ever had? So cruel.
Next thing you know you'll tell me that Patrick Dempsey has ridiculous hair
I already told you that a while ago.
rootsfan
I summer where I winter
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AtFirstSight
If You Only Knew
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EvilMcMonkey
Really Really Experienced
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You're mean
So is insomniaaaaa
Welcome to insomnia...I'll be your host. The nice part is, I got let go from my last temp gig (the week before x-mas...I'd like to thank them for that) so I have no where to be tomorrow.
Street Dog
Really Really Experienced
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Insomnia, huh? Welcome to the club! I hereby give you the compulsory free gift for every new member: Aubade by Philip Larkin. Enjoy!
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.
And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.
And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
Last edited:
AtFirstSight
If You Only Knew
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Can I trade the poem in for a toaster?
EvilMcMonkey
Really Really Experienced
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rootsfan
I summer where I winter
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Erm, why?
Sweet Jesus, Lit is running at the speed of slug the past two nights! Grrr....
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