Standing on the bare ground,--my head bathed by the blithe air, and uplifted into infinite space,--all mean egotism vanishes. I become a transparent eye-ball; I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or particle of God.

The corridors of life. Full with the endless strife. Thoughts of hurt, sounds of black, and colors of loud. Tapping at your castle’s door like a blood fanged hound. Lose yourself in your many rooms. Hide yourself in the endless inner tombs. Lay down inside the halls of plush. Block all that light engulfs, and roll yourself in the hush. Your hand moves against your own flesh. But fear causes the pain’s continuance fresh. In the absence of bravery, feigned death reposes. Retreat, oh god, retreat until nothing remains but roses. Bar the door, close the gate; this is living death. Excruciating joy in imposed loneliness lost in a word of breath.

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
'Good-morning,' and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.




http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sPlhKP0nZII