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Oh DailyBoothIt was 2009, my thoughts were short, my hair was long
Bored with nothing very much to do
Id climbed a dozen trees and watched a thousand DVDs
It was hell living with nothing fun to do
My books, theyd all been finished
My phone was out of minutes
My life was dull, I felt such great despair
So I logged on the Internet
And man I never will forget
The site that greeted me when I got there
And now were all completely hooked
Snapping pets and food and books
Sharing love online through all of our photographs
Drinking ketchup out the bottle, cant wait until tomorrow
Saying Im not gonna leave you, oh DailyBooth
Saying Im not gonna leave you, oh DailyBooth
We upload pictures by the ton
And stalking you is so much fun
My life will never be the same again
We all bow down to Jon
Worlds greatest genius, bar none
He showed us that were all just really vain
So heres my hair when its not dry
And heres a handstand that I tried
I tell you,
Mr BrightsideIt started out with a kiss. How did it end up like this? It was only a kiss.
It was only a kiss.
We had met back in the summer of 2005 at a party held by a mutual friend. There was a barbecue and it was populated by people of the age somewhere between university and marriage. The floating masses, those who still were in the mindset of a student but knew they should be further ahead.
In our heads, as children, we sometimes imagine we will be married and settled by this age. My parents married and had my older sister when they were nineteen. I guess I assumed the same would be true for me, although, as Id aged, Id thought children would never happen for me. I didnt want them. I was happy being young, free and single.
She brushed past me, chestnut hair cascading down her back, the most beautiful girl Id ever met. My mates, believing me to have no chance with her, bet me fifty quid that I couldnt pull her by the end of the night, doubling the prize if I slept
Some Dance To Remember...Some dance to remember, some dance to forget. Tonight, I was dancing to forget. My right hand clasped his left and I guided his hip around the room as we moved in time to the music. His blue eyes shone out of the darkness, lighting up his whole face. I couldnt help but smile as he looked at me, our eyes joined by an invisible bond I didnt want to break.
I shouldnt be here, I said, and although I knew the words were true, I couldnt stop dancing. I was even leading it had been my idea to dance. What was I doing? My girlfriend sat at home and here I was dancing with the most handsome man Id ever encountered.
You should be here, he whispered. Forget about her. And anyway, you arent cheating. Were just dancing, thats all. Just dancing.
Im not just dancing anymore, I said, unable to believe I was just about to say what I was going to say. I think Im falling.
Not even light
Get ready to fight
For a seat
Early morning smells
Smells of commuters
Dry hair, wet hair
Burnt hair, hairspray
Coffee and bacon
Toast and bagels
No one speaks
Trees rush by
Fields and towns
People get on
No one gets off
A single cough
Pull in, pull away
Same every day
Rummage for tickets
They never check
A snore, a sneeze
Get me off now please
GravesideSpencer drifted through the throng of people, nodding to those he liked, ignoring those he was less happy to see. He was looking for someone. Where was she? Ah, there. Ahead of him stood Jenna, his youngest sibling and only sister, dressed in a smart black dress, a shawl draped around her shoulders. She was not wearing a hat, but had instead dyed her usually blonde hair black.
Spencers arm curled up round her shoulders and she sighed as the hairs on the back of her neck stood to attention.
It doesnt seem real does it? he whispered.
I I just dont know what Im going to do, she sniffed, dabbing at her nose with a handkerchief Spencer recognised as his own. He was so important to me.
I know, I know, said Spencer, brushing the hair from his sisters face. I worry about silly things though, like whats happening to the flat?
I wonder if I should move into the flat, Jenna stared in
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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