this big place i live

Finished Twelfth Night. Glanced at King Lear. Not much else to do. I'm pretty bored, trying to consider if i should play a game. I tried writing. Nothing really happened. Not sure. I wrote a lot this weekend. Maybe I'm dry. Maybe I just don't feel like it. All that creativeness. I just want to play something. But I don't want to play WoW. And I hate booting into my windows partition. There isn't any music on it. I should go reading Setting Sun. But I've read so much today. I tried some horrible soup. I ate some cornflakes. And a pizza yesterday around 2. So thats it on the food. The market is closed. No bread. I tried eating a piece of salami but it wasn't inspiring. My bed is a piece of foam. I hate you bed.

I have beer. There is always that to alleviate the boredom. But no couch. And I think I'd like a couch. I 'm still trying to work Twelfth Night around in my head. Beer would ruin that. I have KOTR. And I have that thief game I bought when we were all living at the house on that summer span. I could play that. I like COH. How am I still thinking about that game. Probably because it was fun to play with Carlo. I could load up Baldur's Gate II. But I've beat the hell out of that game.

I wish it wasn't Sunday. There is nothing to do downtown on Sundays. I could just get on the train then. But then what. And where? I have so much change. I watched the diggnation video today and it was cool. Those new Virgin Mobile planes are pretty tight. Especially since all the computers on the plane run linux.

I could start a garden.
Or plant a tree in the middle of my room.
No one ever comes up checking.
What if there was a fire?
I watched from my bed the giant plumes of white steam coming out of the stacks from the building across me. And I thought I was in the 1800's and then the train whistled and rattled by and I was.

---

Playful with the Death, and Playful with the Remark of Fool


Oh her timid terrible face,
That comes crashing; turning eyes and glances so fierce.
She creates that jealousy, dread, fire, lust, remorse, within.
Is the foolish man a dead man? Asks the ever present Bobo.
But the wit of the fool makes him intelligent.
Oh what Feste would say when you looked at him and said it like that,
Without stopping to mind the clouds, sun, or lover's always tragic life,
He would say mind that face. And look to life as always, it rains and pours and stops but once a year,
And mind that more precious love, who shall hate the other competitor so,
Friendship is stronger and more dangerous stuff.
Remarks Feste but is never present but in writing, and Bobo is mad and upon a feverish state,
He who takes the words, of mentor.

Of love they had, now gone and spent, turned to hatred, pent up and bent.
But she has nothing else but to plunge in those waters of a gray sea with whitecaps and gulls above,
And dive to the knife and die to a stab.
For the pain of pains, was the separate of those men.
Which they blame not her, but each other instead.
Bobo prances madly, in the sea that burns.
With the coming sunset, and the present twilight.
The death, o' comes. Sweetly and madly.
Upon her ears, on tasteful sand.
Bobo looks like a mad cat or sparrow.
But says nothing to the engaging,
Oh the pride and pain, and not death,
Neither knows.

In a gentle garden,
Monsieurs face off,
With pistols and fear,
Examining each other from afar.
Playing across the lawn is the unmovable face,
Looking both ways,
With perilous taste.
The sound of guns shooting fire forth,
And Bobo dancing madly, as the fool; who dances in the lawn.
They come giving each an aside, and collapse.

Love is spent, I am the better man,
You are sour and like the cat.
But now put that toy away and be civil,
Run to father and leap and dribble,
Shed your fears to the ground and dismiss this game.
The audience knows not of your weak countenance,
I see it so clearly and your hand will waver.
I pull forth the hammer and spread forth God's anger.

But I shall pay my respects to your grave,
And father will tread softly behind.
While she holds my arm and we shed both for you.
You are arrogant and riddled with foolish eyes.
I hate you simply as that.
You are taller, true, and older yes.
But are also failure and still a nursemaids pet.
Leave the garden and leave the audience to remark,
He did not deserve her, he was belittling towards this grand knight.

And all are, but gone before we were even in the garden,
To the envy and soul;
Of everyone's regret,
All sadly and cold.
The audience dismisses, this as revelry in blood.
But in the hearts, the tears are shod as if all was on the lawn.
And gentle but ravish jester, he courts as the demon spawn.
Moves off to the master, and regales as a faun.
Demanding the petting, and wooing of the court,
Bobo tells the tale of romantic sort.

With the mounting revenge, and coolly disguised hate,
The great ward, of the mightier king,
And the gold and cloaks and the legions within.
Bring forth the sons who died,
And bring forth the fool,
And bring forth, o', over there, that glass of wine,
And to tell the tale,
Bring the lover,
Who cast herself,
Upon her pain.
When she dealt the blow,
And all mighty fame,
That those who die,
Staring at all the choices of lives now spent.

The fool is here,
And he relates of a face.
He says, "Behold a terrible thing,"
And make it quick replies the King,
In doing so, the fool plays in.
That the men are dead, now in the garden which swells,
With the blood of kin, and the souls that dwell.
He says that she could take it not,
The death of friends, of brothers now shot.

The King, with his rich hands and richer face,
His gray beard, his taste.
He touches both eyes of the now bled men.
Their stained turncoats, their swords sheathed, their pistols on breasts.
Now send a funeral.
"My jester plays me as a fool."

"Nay, your jester is but a moral tool," says Bobo striding forth.
Glancing at all the beautiful women, men, the court.
"Sons are dead. And the maiden from afar is suicide."
She stands apart, in hell,
So the pastor cries.
In the hall. "Oh in this King's hall."
He throws down holy water, and submits to crawl.
"Before your feet, let me pray. Let me save,"
"But today".
The King shakes and slumps and nods away.
Fools surround the taste of life.
I taste nothing of revelry.

Delight is blight.
So says Bobo and he administers with his hand out far for all the persons to see,
I have no rings, capes, horses, guns, or master's things.
But I have a word to impart past delight is blight.
We are all ill,
And ill is the reply.
Not once ever, has the time been now.
Nor will it be again.
But always is this, as time is circular, repeating, never still.
The wit of the fool,
The dying king,
The lovers and their folly,
And their suicidal quarry.


---
don't let me know. don't let me know the morning here. i gotta get out of here.