Radyoda her zamanki gibi Morrissey çalıyordu .... .....
....... :
"Güneş ışığının parça lanmış insan kemiklerine vurduğunu görene dek hiç aşık olmamışsındır."
Sayfa 376 - Yabancı YayınlarıKitabı okudu
Morrissey'in hayalleri kafalarında dans ederken çocuklar yataklarında rahatça uyuyorlardı.
youtube.com/watch?v=0Avuwez...
"İyi çocuktum."
Morrissey / İsa'yı Affettim
Sayfa 11
Now comes the hour to choose between being acceptable to others or being acceptable to one's own self, for we must kill our true selves off in order to survive.
New York Dolls
Flayed alive, the Dolls may look beautiful, but they are withering fast, and around them we see Johnny Carson, Paul Newman, Cassius Clay, Robert Redford, David Cassidy, as males within the paragraphs of law. The Dolls endure the consequences of how they look, afflicted by existence yet not responsible.
David Bowie is detached from everything, yet open to everything; stripped of the notion that both art and life are impossible. He is quite real, impossibly glamorous, fearless, and quite British. How could this possibly be?
Lou Reed is unimpressed by applause, and lives a life detached from custom. His stare is cold and his romanticism is brutal. His songs are half-sung melodies of menace. He might drop dead any second, and is therefore the real thing. Examined ravenously like a museum exhibit, Lou Reed is evidently spiked to excess, and strangely loveable.
Books on non-sexist language flip my life for the better, and I understand feminism to be a social savior because it liberates everyone without exclusion, whereas masculinism damns itself by measuring a man's health by the amount of sexual gratification he receives.
I cried for poetic language and I cried out to find those who were unafraid, those free agents, unbigoted and unshackled. I didn't want to live unseen, camouflaged within the crowd. I knew then that life could only ever be changed for the better because somebody somewhere had taken a risk－often with their own life.
Like a lost lark I drag all curiosities back to the sanctity of my bedroom where the door closes and James Dead is not Dean art fills wall and headspace as neat boxes of 7-inch discs explain me to any passing psychiatrist. I have no other identity and I wish for none.
Each day is Kafka-esque in its nightmare, and the school offers nothing at all except a lifelong awareness of hate as as general truth.
