Currently listening to Cake's "Short Skirt/Long Jacket". I've been listening to them non-stop recently. Their style of music is a perfectly unbalanced conglomeration of singing and speaking, also known as sprechgesang. If the human circulatory system could be as syncopated as their beats, life would be swell.
I thought about this in whatever language we use when we think, and being me, decided to take an ignorant whack at Old English. In prose, of course, iambic pentameter should be left to Ol' William.
Blessed memories, why dost thou love and despise me so? Thou art a mother's hand, caressing my longing cheek, only to be betrayed with a sharp stake to the heart, reminding me of what has come and will not come again. The mind is a terrible invention. It haunts and thinks too much -- easily saturated with unspoken desires and enigmatic thoughts. I recite, only in moderation doth wonder bequeath contentment. And here I contradict myself. The mind is an irreproducibly majestic invention. Only in a confusion of good, bad, love, hate, yes, no can one discover not just contentment, but also greatness. Without the sharp stake, what is the mother's hand? The mother's hand is the sharp stake. 'Tis a truth that moderated minds beget moderated potential, and imbued minds beget imbued potential. The flower will not bloom unless inebriated with water.
What the universe has made a curse, the man hath made a treasure.
Tactfully,
T.J.
