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grateful dead

August 28, 2008 by Sineokov

Sugar Magnolia :: Grateful Dead

Sugar Magnolia blossom’s blooming
Head’s all empty and I don’t care
Saw my baby down by the river
Knew she’d have to come up soon for air Continue reading →

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Posted in Music, Poetry | Tagged grateful dead, Lyrics, Music, Poetry | Leave a comment
August 28, 2008 by Sineokov

Attics of My Life :: Grateful Dead

In the attics of my life
Full of cloudy dreams unreal
Full of tastes no tongue can know
And lights no eye can see
When there was no ear to hear

You sang to me
Continue reading →

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August 28, 2008 by Sineokov

Looks Like Rain :: Grateful Dead

I woke today…
And felt your side of bed
The covers were still warm where you’d been layin’.
You were gone…
My heart was filled with dread.
You might not be sleepin’ here again
Continue reading →

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In all the edifice of thought, I have found no category on which to rest my head. . . .

- E. M. Cioran

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'Self-knowledge'? A contradiction in terms.

- E. M. Cioran

. . . feast on ancient books to the lazy enchanting lap of wavelets in the Floating Library, in memoriam of Dr. Sineokov, who had drowned at just that spot in the city river. The grinding of chains, the little gallery with its orange-colored lamp shades, the plash, the water's smooth surface oiled by the moon, and, in the distance, lights flickering past in the black web of a lofty bridge . . .

- Vladimir Nabokov

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I have at this moment so many fundamental thoughts, so many truly metaphysical things to say, that I suddenly get tired and decide not to write any more, not to think any more, but to allow the fever of speaking to make me sleepy, and with my eyes closed, like a cat, I play with everything I could have said.

- Bernardo Soares

Raison d’être

There they are, in my own handwriting: the words that have been my prayer, evening after evening. I copied them from the books I found them in, so that they would be right in front of me, issued from my hand as if they were my own words. And now I want to write them again, kneeling here before my tablet I want to write them; for in this way I can have them with me longer than when I read them, and every word will last and have time to echo and fade away.

- R. M. Rilke

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