The one who put "ass" in "Christmas".

Christmas makes me depressed. Me, and half of the world's population, I think.

Today I was going through some old stationery that I have. Korean stationery, in manga style. An old pen-pal had sent it to me back in 1997. The beauty of those pieces of paper is unbelievable. The colours, the compositions, the way both sexes are depicted. That's why I have kept them for so long while I have given away so many others. I have even lost contact with the girl who sent them. It once more made realise what I am looking for when buying Asian comics and art as well as music by Asian bands. The illusion of perfection. Pretty men dressed in loose lovely clothes together with beautiful women, enjoying the sunset or spending time relaxing. But this perfection I am looking for doesn't exist. People are more stressed than ever, they don't look like this and usually run from one job to the other while their parents babysit the kids. They also smell bad, fart, get sick with diarrhea, have wrinkles, terrible taste in clothes and girlfriends/ boyfriends, extra kilos, lisps, are cross-eyed, moronic, boring, stubborn and as for the idyllic places the stationery depicts, the entire earth is polluted beyond measure.

I am getting sick of the way the human mind works. Always wanting more, more, more. Never being happy with what we have. I suppose I can understand why we're made this way; we're supposed to be continually looking for ways to improve our situation, learn more things, apply the knowledge to gain even more experience.

Yeeeeeah, RIGHT. All I see is people who refuse to grasp the basics. And though they struggle with the basics their entire lives, they whine "more, more, more" like hysterical, spoiled children. Until the day they are dying, and they are dying complaining they did not get to live. As if someone else made the decisions for them and they weren't there when their life was happening. And I want to smack their stupid heads and bruise them "more, more, more". Hmph. My usual misanthropic mood; pay me no heed.

If I ever manage to go to Japan I'll make sure I turn my back into a fucking tapestry of tattoos. Oh, and here's the conversation I had with my mother on the matter of tattoos:

My mother: "Your tattoos are all... black."

Me: "Yeah, I know. The next ones will have more colour."

My mother on the verge of a breakdown: "What?! You are going to have MORE???"

Me: "Yeah, quite a few."

My mother: "Wait till you get married and then you have some more." (She is obviously afraid no man will marry me because I have tattoos. And unless I get married, I am not a 'proper' Greek woman. *facepalm*)

Me: "You are turning into such an idiotic example of a prim and proper moron of the middle class. Who gave you any kind of guarantee that my future husband will have no tattoos?"

My mother spends a few moments considering this devastating possibility. Finally, when she manages to speak again, she tells me:

"But I don't like men with tattoos."

Me: "Well then, if he proposes you, turn him down."

ARGH! Remind me again what we need parents for?

PS:

Actual order of things happening now:

Eating pralines, writing on my blog, and sharing my bed with my two cats while listening to Dir en Grey.

Preferred order of things:

Eating pralines, writing on my blog about my two cats while sharing my bed with Dir en Grey.

Very wrong order of things:

Eating Dir en Grey, writing to my pralines about my two cats, while sharing my bed with my blog.

Surreal order of things:

My pralines eating Dir en Grey on my bed while my blog writes to my cats recipes on how to cook Japanese rock stars. (Eat the motherfuckers raw, they taste better.)

Writing poetry, fumbling with the unknown...

I am writing a poem for someone who has been by my side ever since the day I was born. If it turns out to be a half decent one, I'll publish it here. Generally speaking, I avoid uploading poetry here because anyone can take it and say it's theirs and publish it. It is the same reason I have never posted any of my short stories here. But I don't think this poem is such a big success anyway. Contrary to the person it talks about.

Life is becoming stranger and stranger. In the past I used to read my cards. Lately I am having talks with supernatural entities while being wide awake and under no influence of anything (except for a Greek milk chocolate bar with almonds). They tell me things, things I am not sure I want to know or do something about. Then I go home and read my tarot cards to see if I have gone nuts or not, and the cards verify the "conversation" I had had earlier on. Aaaaaaarggghhhh... *miserable moan* I am not sure I want to know all that. Hell, I am not sure if I want to be reading books as a pasttime and know that the writer made a deal with a supernatural entity to become famous. How do I know this? Oh, it's just the energy feedback I get. I feel like I am eating entrails of still living infants stuffed with cockroaches, that's all. And the fact I am yawning like I haven't slept for ten days, or there is a yawning contest. I am not sure I want to look at people and know so many details, know that they have hidden motivations and entities attached to them, know what their souls are like, know why they do the things they do. Ignorance is bliss indeed. But I can't help but wonder, what. The. Fuck. Don't other people feel it? Don't they realise there is something WRONG, fundamentally wrong with the book they are reading or the person they are talking with? Am I too sensitive? Too weird? Too picky? Is it all in my head? What is wrong with me? Is it wrong with me or with them?

Questions multiply by water, answers are scarcer than unicorn shit, as a friend says.

Stations of Life

I've just finished re-reading 1602, a graphic novel by Neil Gaiman.

Yesterday I re-read the first Books of Magic graphic novel.

Three days ago I saw one of the First in my sleep. His back was turned and he was walking away. "Talk to me" I pleaded. "I'm busy now" he replied and left.

A week ago I found out about a health problem I have. Not very serious. Not simple either.

Two weeks ago I finished another short story.

Three months ago in my sleep I talked to the one who tries to destroy me in any and every way possible. I hugged and told her, "You can still stop it. You can ask for forgiveness". She pushed me away, furious. "I won't!" she said.

Six months ago I started talking with someone who will probably be important for my future in a foreign country. She is important to me already.

Two and a half years ago I found out who you are. Are you?

Three years ago I accidentally linked with a photo and discovered that someone, an eighteen year old someone had been murdered and his parents still expect him to return home. I cried so much that night I though I would die.

Three and a half years ago I tried to help the one who had killed me in the past. I accidentally connected to the Source. Have not been able to disconnect ever since.

Almost four years ago my father died.

Six and a half years ago I broke up with the last relationship I had.

Eleven years ago I was in love.

Eleven and a half years ago I came back to Greece from United Kingdom.

Thirteen and a half years ago I left for United Kingdom for my studies.

Fifteen years ago I was still drawing. Not anymore.

Sixteen years ago my father left home.

Sixteen and a half years ago I fell in love for the first time in my life.

Nineteen years ago my mother was still hitting me.

Thirty years ago I was victimized.

Thirty three and a half years ago I was born.

How come I feel one hundred and fifty years tired?

Is it over yet?

Frustration.

[Beautiful art by http://gunnmgally.deviantart.com]

Something happened today which made me think about my future.

The body is a frail thing.

I miss my original form.

I miss the freedom of the wondrous.

I miss, miss, miss my freedom.

I sometimes think about choice and always come to the conclusion there are no true choices.

Only the illusion of choices.

In theory I can help anyone; such a pity I did not help myself more.

But I did not know more.

I did everything I could according to what I knew and understood.

Everything I did went exactly as it should.

It all went the way it would.

Would, should, could, my pink hairy asshole.

And now what?

Toshiya

I feel tired and frustrated today.

Perhaps it is related to what I did last night on another level.

If the information I got is correct, what’s happening is beyond my scope and understanding. And I have the feeling my information is correct. It’s karma of some thousands of years old. It’s hardcore stuff. Then again, I am the hardcore girl. I am not the kind of person who ever has it easy. I sometimes enjoy the challenge. More often than not, however, especially in the last years, I wish I had it easy.

I spent a considerable amount of time downloading photos of Toshiya, my personal favourite from Dir en Grey. He’s a surprisingly sexy Japanese male who looks gorgeous in drag and very attractive in ordinary clothes with his bass and badass rock star attire. Lately he has taken a shine to cross-dressing again, even though the rest of the band members prefer jeans, t-shirts and shirts. Their cross-dressing days are far in the past and yet pretty Toshiya once more wears skirts and dresses, minus the make-up. Now, if you ask me, I think he looks gorgeous in dresses and skirts and he should keep on doing it. I have never been the traditional kind of woman who likes her men masculine, hairy and uncompromised. Then again, beautiful Toshiya is probably doing it because the female fans love it so much. I enjoy the visual result since the actual person is about as far beyond my reach as the moon; something everyone can see and admire, but cannot touch or possess on a personal level. I often wonder how gullible I must be in order to think that a member of a world famous band could possibly do things because they want to, and not because it’s a management order or a technique to acquire more fans. Then I tell myself not to be harsh on myself and not bother with particulars that don’t matter and just enjoy. The self-inflicted head bashing must stop.

I would love to meet this man. Really love to. If he is as sexy as in the photos, I wouldn’t want to just tumble him, but eat his flesh for breakfast, dinner and supper. But photos are often deceiving, and there are a million other things that get in the way, so I just waste my time looking at photos. It’s undoubtedly a pleasant way of killing time, but I nonetheless feel I’m wasting my time.

How much time can you fit in the palm of your hand?

Radical radish

And then comes the day that you decide you just want everything gone from your email. And the best buttons in the world are: Ctrl+A+Delete. You don’t stop to see what’s useful and what’s not useful. You don’t save anything. You don’t care about anything. Everything has to go, and it does. Bye bye now. Off with their heads, said the mad queen. So I erased all my emails before I could change my mind. And I feel ecstatic about it. Yay!

In the future we'll be able to erase all our emails using bombs. Meh. Kind of a way to check your mail and release tension at the same time.

Then I went into Facebook, and for some reason all the advertisements on the right appear in Japanese. The fuck?!? Not certain why this is happening. Not even certain IF it's happening. Perhaps I'm having a bad dream about it. After watching three really bad horror movies by various Asian directors called "Three Extremes" I am sure I am seeing Kanji and entrails everywhere. It's the vlad, I tell you. The vlaaaad. (blooood.) That, and the awful directors. Very postmodern bullshit with psychoanalysis elements my two smelly feet. With the exception of the third movie in the lot, which was fantastic: dreamy, unusual, beautiful. Lovely images, really scary sounds.

The fuck. Now I think my customers speak to me in Japanese. Let me try cleaning my ears a little. Aaah, still I'm hearing Japanese. It could be worse. I could be hearing little children singing. Not ghost children. Off tone children. Those are worse.

Why on earth am I still hearing Japanese?

“All those born with wings.”

It is time. Tonight.

That the wind blows like a gale, like a curse, like a threnody.

It is time.

For me to spread my wings. Ebony black, darker than the heart of darkness.

To take flight.

To roam the skies between the blind screams of the elements.

I shall land on those rooftops that despair has proclaimed her own, and her ragged flag, invisible to all eyes but my own, is dancing to each hellish gust.

I shall enter from locked windows and darkened mirrors, unseen and unheard. I shall answer your prayers. Tonight.

Feed on you.

Feed on your hearts.

Feed on the reek of your sins.

Feed.

Tonight.

Till all that is left will be something so mutilated, so torn, that won’t pass for human remains.

Till your true nature is revealed. Rotting sacks of meat. Nothing that could be called a soul residing in you.

There.

Do you see me on the floor, wiping my mouth?

Between the dark blood, and entrails, and the broken bones sticking out from torn limbs?

Do you see my knowing smile?

Do you know my name?

No?

It is time.

To enter in places where there is no hope.

To touch the brows of those dying alone.

To kiss the cheeks of children crying even in their sleep.

I’ll wipe the blood from my lips before kissing them goodnight. I shall leave no trace.

And if I cannot save them anymore I‘ll steal them from you.

I’ll whisper in their ear.

Suicide. What a tragedy.

Surely not as bad as the so-called life they had.

And my sister, the shepherd of the lost, will pick their souls from the crossroads, and embrace them like you never did.

I’ll mix poisons in boiling cauldrons and feed them to you secretly.

I’ll feed you when you think yourselves invincible. The purest milk from my breasts.

The source of feelings becoming the source of death.

Vagina transformed into a grave.

You will pay.

By the blood from your veins you will pay.

For the blood of your children that you shed with such ease you will pay.

No-one can stop me.

No-one can make me spare you.

Tonight that the wind knows no rest, I come on wings as black as the negative of matter.

Bare like the moon.

Black like my Sun.

Because you called me back.

You raised me from the river of Lethe and named me.

You gave me my wings.

You armed my hand.

You sharpened my sword with your outrageous crimes.

No land will hide you.

No god will save you.

You are mine.

“And her name was like a blackbird, like a night bird crying out in the most desolate of all deserts; the human heart.”

Beautifully mad.

It's pretty much useless.

He is not Nuare and I don't have thigh high boots yet, to trample him underfoot.

Still the thought persists.

It's them again, pestering me. Damn Japanese. Always pestering me. I swear I was only making labels. Not looking for trouble.

*Sigh*

And he is beautifully mad too. Isn't it a shame he is so far away?

[Both photos: Kamijo, singer of Japanese rock group Versailles.]

Personal favourites

Experts from the book “Oranges are not the only fruit” by Jeanette Winterson.

…“In those days, magic was very important, and territory, to start with, just an extension of the chalk circle you drew around yourself to protect yourself from elementals and the like. It’s gone out of fashion now, which is a shame, because sitting in a chalk circle when you feel threatened is a lot better than sitting in a gas oven. Of course people will laugh at you, but people laugh at a great many things, so there’s no need to take it personally. Why will it work? It works because the principle of personal space is always the same, whether you’re fending off an elemental or someone’s bad mood. It’s a force field around yourself, and as long as our imagining powers are weak, it’s useful to have something physical to remind us.

The training of wizards is a very difficult thing. Wizards have to spend years sitting in a chalk circle until they can manage without it. They push out their power bit by bit, first within their hearts, then within their bodies, then within their immediate circle. It is not possible to control the outside of yourself until you have mastered your breathing space. It is not possible to change anything until you understand the substance you wish to change. Of course people mutilate and modify, but these are fallen powers, and to change something which you do not understand is the true nature of evil.”

…

“‘Don’t you ever think of going back?’

Silly question. There are threads that help you find your way back, and there are threads that intent to bring you back. Mind turns to the pull, it’s hard to pull away. I’m always thinking of going back. When Lot’s wife looked over her shoulder, she turned into a pillar of salt. Pillars hold things up, and salt keeps things clean, but it’s a poor exchange for losing your self. People do go back, but they don’t survive, because two realities are claiming them at the same time. Such things are too much. You can salt your heart, or kill your heart, or you can choose between the two realities. There is much pain here. Some people think you can have your cake and eat it. The cake goes mouldy and they choke on what’s left. Going back after a long time will make you mad, because the people you left behind do not like to see you changed, will treat you as they always did, accuse you of being indifferent, when you are only different.”

…

“If the demons lie within, they travel with you.”

…

“Everyone thinks their own situation most tragic. I am no exception.”

…

“Mommy, it hurts! I need a band-aid! Big enough to cover the entire me!”

You ungrateful self-centered little shit. All you care about is your own self, your deluxe little black box of misery where you want to lock yourself for the rest of eternity.

 

FINE. You do that. I’ll come and empty a fucking lorry full of cement on it to make sure you will never come out of it again even if you change your mind.

 

You fucking moron, little deluded idiot. You are the only one who hurts, aren’t you? In this world of absolute happiness and perfection only you suffer. Your little frozen heart, your anguished cries, oh you poor thing that feels like garbage and was never given any love. And you want to live in squalor because this is what befits you. Strange words coming out of the pen of a man who has his own brand of clothes and god/dess knows how much money he makes in an average year doing what he loves most. Masturbating over his failures. 

 

You miserable stadium-sized egotist. A whining leech, a male drama queen asking to be patted on the back. A hypocrite through and through, deceiving first and foremost yourself. Never thought the emo movement would make it all the way to your country, but it did. And you were the father of it before it even existed. Congratulations, another candle lit on the altar of stupidity. 

 

What the fuck is it that you are trying to show to the rest of us? That human pain has your name in the copyrights section? That you can spell the alphabet of hurt, a knowledge gained by the countless times you’ve mutilated yourself? Every single time you’ve done this there is only one person you are thinking about and that person is your own self. Every time your hands hurt your body, every time your choices hurt you, THE ONLY FUCKING PERSON YOU ARE THINKING ABOUT IS YOURSELF. How to prolong your pain because you enjoy it so much. How to keep getting your fix, because you are addicted to your own misery. YOU ARE A JUNKIE. You are not deep, tormented, traumatized or misunderstood. YOU ARE NOTHING BUT A JUNKIE ADDICTED TO THE CHEMICALS YOUR BRAIN PRODUCES WHEN YOU LOATHE YOURSELF. You’ll do anything on a daily basis to get your fix, you’ll care about nothing, appreciate nothing and stop nowhere in order to get your drug. People like you will ignore, destroy and sabotage everything good in their lives in order to keep their familiar narration of living in hell. And there is only one thing I want to do to your kind; spit you in the face. But I wouldn’t do that, no, because you’d get your fix then, you’d get your pleasure. And people like you deserve to get back only what they give out. NOTHING. Zip. Nada. So please stop masturbating over your issues and crawl back to the hole you came out of. No-one here will pay attention to your antics or pity you. No-one will bother with you any longer or care. 

 

I RENOUNCE YOU. In the name of the one I love the most, my other half, I renounce you. In my own name that I hold sacred I renounce you. In the name of humanity and hope I renounce you. All bonds between us, past and present, are severed. Go in peace or go to hell; it makes no difference to me anyway. I’ve had enough of self-centered whining leeches. Enough of meaningless BULLSHIT. To hell with it.

Fingers on the keyboard, fire under my pants

I see my fingers on the keyboard… And it looks both comforting and promising.

Q: How do you know a past life in regard to Japan is resurfacing?

A: I try to read a simple text in Japanese and get a motherfucker of a headache. Like the hunchback of Notre Dame is playing drums on my skull with many ample-sized elaborate hammers, or someone has strapped a length of leather around my temples and is squeezing slowly to check my cranium collapsing point. Nice! I also get restless, fidgety, depressive and distracted. It’s the perfect conditions for studying hard.

(Right now the only hard thing I want to bother myself with, in the sense of scrutinizing and studying, is hard candy. Or that other, occasionally hard, interesting thing. End of period, beginning of ovulation. Armies of nekkid elves and imprisoned J-rockers inside my head will be taken care of before the end of the week).

I wonder why I see such complicated dreams lately. I take no drugs save for the occasional over-indulgence in chocolate. But my dreams, oh my fucking gods. Last night I surpassed myself again. I do remember pushing a bathtub with wheels and two women inside, holding oars, towards the sea… I also remember stealing some heavy silver and gold rings from the queen of vampires, and having to carry them… And I am not sure if I really want to remember much more. It seems I am having too much fun with True Blood. And as always, I am partly aware of the reason why my dreams are so complicated. As for sharing with the rest of the world, uh-uh.

There are things that can be shared and those that cannot be shared.

I have just acquainted myself with some new pen pals I cannot write to. What the heck can I tell them? That the energy of the one of them is totally incompatible to mine? They will probably think I am nuts. I get a headache just by reading her letter; how the hell am I supposed to answer and keep regular contact? The other has just moved out of one oppressive relationship to the next one. I am supposed to keep my mouth shut. What in the blue blazes? I know I must not say a thing, but I’ll be damned if I don’t itch with desire to tell her to stop picking the wrong kind of person to get involved with. Yet I cannot do that, because if I do, I’ll get into the wrong kind of conversation with her. Which means, telling people what they need to do “for their own good”. But what people do, even if it is a poor choice and for me it’s self explanatory why, it’s still their business. Why?

*Because I was not asked for my opinion.

*Because I would be seriously enraged if someone told me what to (not) do.

*Because each has to discover the truth for themselves. Even if I tell them what they should do and why, experience cannot be communicated. Perhaps they would do what they were told, but would still be as clueless as they were before I told them. One has to experience in order to understand and some of us experience and still don’t understand.

*Because telling others “the right thing to do” is one hell of an ego trip. It makes one feel important and all knowing and useful but offers nothing to both the giver and the receiver of advice. The one that gives advice tries solving other people’s problems instead of their own, retaining the delusion that their opinion is the only “right” one. The one who receives the advice has no initiative, no responsibility (“it wasn’t my idea, they told me to do so”) and feels very comfortable doing nothing, since someone else does the thinking for them.

*Because, at the end of the day, I cannot keep a neutral perspective and not get emotionally involved in a situation that is not my problem or responsibility. And since I get involved in the wrong way it is best not to get involved at all, until I learn to keep a neutral attitude and believe, truly believe that everyone is safe no matter how poor their choices are. Even if their choices lead them to death, they are still safe. Energy is never lost, merely transmuted. They’ll be back, much like the Terminator, to try their luck again. That’s the game of life and I should bother with my cards instead of telling others how to play theirs.

Nice thoughts. But I wonder if I’ll be able to practice what I preach… :-(

How to kidnap rock stars

The battle rages on… And I try to win by writing poetry. And listening to Dir en Grey, of course. What else.

I have not written here in ages. It has been a busy time. Most of the time, not in a good way. But as I said before, the battle rages on. I don’t give a flying fuck. I will win. I will win because I am on the right side. The one that has butter, that is.

I am trying to be positive. I already am A positive as a blood type. It counts for something, I guess. I also am watching the True Blood series. It has a positive impact on me. I think. Vampires and rednecks. Why the hell not. Thank you, K. for giving the series to me. I have always hated that part of US and now, watching vampires trampling rednecks underfoot I swear I would have gotten an erection if that was anatomically possible.

Ahh… There is so much I would like to write about. This time I’ll refer to a fantasy I have, if only to please my black velvet heart. I have a friend of mine who looks like a crossover between Vin Diesel and the guy from Machette, only with less scars and more ways to kill. Let’s call him P.G.R. (Initials stand for Petite Grim Reaper.) As expected, he has more male friends like him who are of equal dimensions and skills, if only to be able to play with the boys without any repercussions. Read between the lines: exchange friendly slaps and pats on each others’ backs and be casual about it. To help you understand, slaps and pats that would have knocked professional wrestlers unconscious and would have caused the average person to suffer multiple spinal fractures. So I have this fantasy of my friend P.G.R. and two of his friends knocking on the door of a specific rock star saying “packet for you sir, signed delivery please”. As soon as the rock star answers his door he’s silenced with a friendly concussion-causing knock on his head, grabbed and ushered inside a large wooden box. Next scene is taking place in a sunny green field, where I am sat on a director’s chair sipping chocolate milk from a large mug and watching those three friends playing rugby using the aforesaid rock star as a ball. There is also this curious brick wall serving no obvious purpose, built in the middle of the field. Idyllic, isn’t it? Just think about it. Think of how many times he’ll slip off their grasp and land on the ground, preferably head or face first. The number of times they’ll miss and send him though the brick wall, onto tree trunks, into the small picturesque piranha-infested stream nearby. And if he doesn’t slip we can always undress him save for a loincloth and cover him in Vaseline first, then continue. Oooooh, naughty! I think I am getting wet. I go do other things now.

PS: I had a friendly conversation with P.G.R. a few days ago. I was complaining to him about the need to practice my speaking skills in a foreign language and once more he offered to kidnap and bring me the same rock star to help me. Then he added, “of course, I’ll break his pelvis first, in case you get any funny ideas.” When I complained to him that the rock star speaks too fast and I won’t be able to follow, he offered to rip off his jaw, too, if only to assist him in speaking more slowly.

Busy with mundane tasks

I have been busy throwing away stuff, like I do every summer. Mind you, I would be doing this regularly, but as I have said perhaps two million times before in this blog, when I work so much, I just can’t. I let stuff gather and then when I manage to find some time I throw away as much as I can. Tastes change, needs change and stuff has to move on, be recycled or given away accordingly. Books, comics and manga fly to all directions through bookmooch.com. Old letters from people I no longer write with are recycled. Trinkets and useless clothes are given away. Clippings from magazines are finally read and then either stored away or recycled. Books are re-arranged, items used up, energies move. Good stuff happening.

Then I busied myself with my PC, erasing stuff I don’t need. And I made new labels, a ton of them, and I moved on some swapping items. Exciting stuff, I know. You can’t contain yourselves from the sheer adrenaline. My library is filled to the brim and I still have no proper space for all my cds. I have also been fighting with my mother. I don’t let those facts bother me anymore than I let the continual presence of cathairs in my life bother me. That’s the way it just is. I don’t think it will ever change.

I am listening to the latest Dir en Grey cd, which is so very odd that I have no words to describe it. It’s just so weird! It’s quite exceptional but so very unusual, so full of different and often contradicting sounds and influences that I need some time to digest it. The singer has gone quite nuts and has been trying new stuff throughout the album, as well as the rest of the band. I can hear melodies and rhythms I have never before encountered in their music. Have they advanced? Certainly, it’s just that they are more chaotic than ever, and sometimes I find myself lost half way through a song. I already know and love Lotus, Vanitas, Diabolos and Hageshisa to kono. They were released as singles and I had the chance to listen to them many times and fall in love with them. The rest of the album needs listening to and I am glad it does. We live in a fast food era; some things need to stand out from the rubble and demand our full attention. I wouldn’t be happy with a fast-food album from this particular band. They are not Placebo or Tokio Hotel. Don’t get this wrong; I love Placebo and Tokio Hotel for very different reasons. But let’s not put shovels and swords in the same place, they don’t belong together.

Vanitas means emptiness… It’s a sweet song, easy to listen to, and the singer doesn’t scream at all, making it a safe choice to use in compilations I make for other people. Of course, I would love to see those people’s faces if they ever decide to look up Dir en grey in youtube after listening to a song like Vanitas. It’s like inviting to your place that pretty, mostly silent girl you met at that party, and seeing her arrive armed with a sword, a gun, an iron maiden on wheels, many meters of barbed wire and two kilos of TNT. It really makes one wonder what she has in mind. It also makes one wonder what the person who introduced you at the party was thinking. Hahaha!!!

(The picture was something I have had for ages in my pc... Very beautiful.)