Engelska

The branch he sat on was creaking under his weight, but he didn´t seem to notice or care. He was shouting about being angry at his brother. I stood by the trunk and cried and begged him to come down, but he wouldn´t listen. <br/><br/>I will not come down until Gregoris has apologised to you! he insisted. There were two birds in the tree with my grandfather, one on each side of him. One of the birds was a dove, the other some sort of bird of prey, like a hawk or a falcon. <br/><br/>"If you won´t come down, will you at least save the dove? And look out for the other bird!" I cried out. Just as my grandfather reached out to the dove, the branch snapped.

Thoughts, and the story of a man with a heart, and a dream<br/> read the story of 'Diamond'<br/> old fashioned love, yearning love, lost? and found love?.familylife?read and find out, will he find 'her'?..the woman of his heart.<br/> sometimes wishes and dreams can come through?<br/> but before, we must dream

Need something to read? then let my 'small mixed writings' keep you company, I hope you find some piece you like. hope you enjoy.

"[...] their single purpose is to keep us here, alone, chained to the corners of our rooms there will be no other truths than the single ones, no dreams but your own i do, all, to be next to you, there will be no other dreams than yours, the ladies leave you, weeping, let other feelings be mixed, this, stay imprisoned, cornered, as man, sample others, to stay, you are not unique, dreams are chained to what she says you hear no other dreamers, all is quiet at night, you can't hear them die, listen closely, as you fall fast asleep at night, can you hear them cry, can you hear her cry there's no decision to make, you just roll with the punches, at night, citylights never blind the drunken or even the ones that stumble from trashcan to traschcan, the ones called hobos, bums, the one "most likely to succeed" the one with the pressure, the ones that want to be free, the ones she wants to leave coffee, seem to be the same as always, phone doesn't work, searching for the other other one, it's morning, with wind from the pacific coming in, coming in to work too late, wouldn't mind sleeping another day, cause i'd like to be here if she calls, don't mind going to work, i don't do anything at home, watching them all walk by, down by the supermarket, the mother is her daughter, the father is my son, can't find the phone, bust that safe, see the true form the others, the other ones that are competing for the same, the same as you need, open the door, it's not even the ones you missed it's, the ones you will miss, dont even miss her when you should, to busy being bad, like thoughts go, go alone, don't let us follow this is not the way it's supposed to end it's like i'm obsessed with her, can't find my way back, i can't sleep, unless i drink myself into a coma i never intended this, or wanted it to be this way, like everyone else i want to be happy, but without her it doesn't seem worthwhile, but i'll get there, i'll find my way back, find that path, the one meant for me, one day all this will be lost, then this will seem to have been a waste of time"

A haunting novella of fame and disillusionment by a Japanese literary iconAll eyes are upon Rikio. And he likes it, mostly. His fans cheer from a roped-off section, screaming and yelling to attract his attention.<br/><br/>They would kill for a moment alone with him. Finally the director sets up the shot, the camera begins to roll, someone yells "action"; Rikio, for a moment, transforms into another being, a hardened young yakuza, but as soon as the shot is finished, he slumps back into his own anxieties and obsessions. Written shortly after Yukio Mishima himself had acted in the film Afraid to Die, this novella is a rich and unflinching psychological portrait of a celebrity coming apart at the seams as the absurdity of his existence comes sharply into focus.<br/><br/>With exquisite, vivid prose, Star begs the question: is there ever any escape from how we are seen by others?

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Richard can't stop thinking about the clock. He lies in bed each night listening to its tick-tocking, to the pendulum's heavy swing. Why does his granddad open its old doors in secret and walk into the darkness beyond? One night, too inquisitive to sleep, Richard tiptoes from his bed, opens the cherry wood doors, and steps inside . . .