Memories... Memories blur into dreams Light bleeds into truth Everything unforgiving Everything becoming hollow Loneliness consumes And there is no way back The places you played The places you called home The people you thought you loved All of them Reduced to a memory of another life Life you never lived All the yesterdays that can't form a tomorrow All the tomorrows That never came from yesterday A new beginning Because forever Is never forever.
[...] being human is being a young child on Christmas Day who receives and absolutely magnificent castle. And there is a perfect photograph of this castle on the box and you want more than anything to play with the castle and the knights and the princesses because it looks like such a perfect human world, but the only problem is that the castle isn't built. It's in tiny intricate pieces, and although there's a book of instructions you don't understand it. And nor can your parents or Aunt Sylvie. So you are just left, crying at the ideal castle on the box which no one would ever be able to build.
Bist du hübsch, kommst du eingeblidet rüber. Bist du hässlich, sagt es dir jeder. Bist du selbstbewusst, nennt man dich Player oder Schlampe. Bist du schüchtern, meint man, du kannst den Mund nicht aufmachen. Bist du klug, bist du ein Streber. Bist du dumm, heißt es, du hast kein Gehirn. Machst du was richtig, merkt es keiner. Machst du was falsch, wird es niemand vergessen.
Summertime, I think, is a collective unconscious. We all remember the notes that made up the song of the ice cream man; we all know what it feels like to brand our thighs on a playground slide that's heated up like a knife in a fire; we all have lain on our backs with our eyes closed and our hearts beating across the surface of our lids, hoping that this day will stretch just a little longer than the last one, when in fact it's all going in the other direction.