And here I am,
Again and again and again.
All words, full of fury, signifying nothing.
What does that make me?
Though my hands be not red,
In this day and age shoud they not be?
Words, art, philosophy,
Sometimes they suffice.
But sometimes,
Sometimes direct action is needed,
Is this a dagger I see before me?
They come!
They come!
Leave the letter that never begins to go find the latter that ever comes to end, written in smoke and blurred by mist and signed of solitude, sealed of night.
-James Joyce
-James Joyce
Re: They come!
there is profound frustration
watching our so called leaders
in government, in our great institutions
colossally fail us at every turn
as we understand that greed and power
blind and corrupt what once may have been
honorable men, and with that recognition
we feel so small....so powerless
the US needs a general strike, a mass
shift in consciousness
only then will people regain their power
watching our so called leaders
in government, in our great institutions
colossally fail us at every turn
as we understand that greed and power
blind and corrupt what once may have been
honorable men, and with that recognition
we feel so small....so powerless
the US needs a general strike, a mass
shift in consciousness
only then will people regain their power
If you do not change your direction
you may end up where you are heading
you may end up where you are heading
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- Posts: 630
- Joined: March 29th, 2009, 8:09 am
Re: They come!
Brutus? A hero perhaps but the empire came anyway. Lady MacBeth saw the daggr---if I remember correctly----but that was after the fact.
When words become deeds, the horse is out of the barn.
When words become deeds, the horse is out of the barn.
The Irish Sea Is Always In Turmoil, Even When Calm.
Re: They come!
I believe lady Macbeth WEILDED the dagger though I would have to verify... The threshold between sanity and madness, addiction and soberity, art and reality... A big theme, but one that has become important.... Wherein lives the line? The most interesting question.
Leave the letter that never begins to go find the latter that ever comes to end, written in smoke and blurred by mist and signed of solitude, sealed of night.
-James Joyce
-James Joyce
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