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14:06 Aug 23 2013
Times Read: 401

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"Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own free will!"

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My beloved and my favourite actor - Dragonrouge

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All of us are immortal but first we must die!

MIRCEA ELIADE (a romanian philosopher)

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Brandon Lee - The final interview

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"My body is a journal in a way. It's like what sailors used to do, where every tattoo meant something, a specific time in your life when you make a mark on yourself, whether you do it to yourself with a knife or with a professional tattoo artist." (Johnny Depp)

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Keanu Reeves in Bram Stoker's Dracula

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"Darkness falls across the land

The midnite hour is close at hand

Creatures crawl in search of blood

To terrorize yawls neighbourhood

And whosoever shall be found

Without the soul for getting down

Must stand and face the hounds of hell

And rot inside a corpses shell

The foulest stench is in the air

The funk of forty thousand years

And grizzy ghouls from every tomb

Are closing in to seal your doom

And though you fight to stay alive

Your body starts to shiver

For no mere mortal can resist

The evil of the thriller."

~ Vincent Price's monologue on "Thriller" ~

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The story tells of a small town that is very much bothered by a very strange and weird man living in a visually haunted house. One day the mayor decides to go with a couple of people from his town to the weird man who's living up the hill, and tell him to leave. When they reach the mayor starts convincing him to leave his town, but the people with the mayor started liking Michael Jackson, and he started singing to them and scaring the mayor. Until in the end the mayor gets too scared and runs away, and the people come to know that Michael isn't too bad after all.

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Blessed be this place,

More blessed still this tower;

A bloody, arrogant power

Rose out of the race

Uttering, mastering it,

Rose like these walls from these

Storm-beaten cottages --

In mockery I have set

A powerful emblem up,

And sing it rhyme upon rhyme

In mockery of a time

HaIf dead at the top.

Alexandria's was a beacon tower, and Babylon's

An image of the moving heavens, a log-book of the

sun's journey and the moon's;

And Shelley had his towers, thought's crowned powers

he called them once.

I declare this tower is my symbol; I declare

This winding, gyring, spiring treadmill of a stair is my

ancestral stair;

That Goldsmith and the Dean, Berkeley and Burke

have travelled there.

Swift beating on his breast in sibylline frenzy blind

Because the heart in his blood-sodden breast had

dragged him down into mankind,

Goldsmith deliberately sipping at the honey-pot of his

mind,

And haughtier-headed Burke that proved the State a

tree,

That this unconquerable labyrinth of the birds, cen-

tury after century,

Cast but dead leaves to mathematical equality;

And God-appointed Berkeley that proved all things a

dream,

That this pragmatical, preposterous pig of a world, its

farrow that so solid seem,

Must vanish on the instant if the mind but change its

theme;

Saeva Indignatio and the labourer's hire,

The strength that gives our blood and state magnani-

mity of its own desire;

Everything that is not God consumed with intellectual

fire.

III

The purity of the unclouded moon

Has flung its atrowy shaft upon the floor.

Seven centuries have passed and it is pure,

The blood of innocence has left no stain.

There, on blood-saturated ground, have stood

Soldier, assassin, executioner.

Whether for daily pittance or in blind fear

Or out of abstract hatred, and shed blood,

But could not cast a single jet thereon.

Odour of blood on the ancestral stair!

And we that have shed none must gather there

And clamour in drunken frenzy for the moon.

IV

Upon the dusty, glittering windows cling,

And seem to cling upon the moonlit skies,

Tortoiseshell butterflies, peacock butterflies,

A couple of night-moths are on the wing.

Is every modern nation like the tower,

Half dead at the top? No matter what I said,

For wisdom is the property of the dead,

A something incompatible with life; and power,

Like everything that has the stain of blood,

A property of the living; but no stain

Can come upon the visage of the moon

When it has looked in glory from a cloud.

(BLOOD AND THE MOON by William Butler Yeats)

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