(no subject)

...To die, to sleep -
To sleep - perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub.
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
when we have shuffled off this mortal coil
must give us pause.
-- Shakespeare, Hamlet's Soliloquy

What is reality? Tell me.
Tell me thoughts of God
Do dreams fall from God?
Tell me what dreams may come
Break free thoughts all gone
We've all come down
-- Fields of the Nephilim, Sumerland

Ah, old school goth, when goths were 18-25 years old, not 12-16. Then -- Bauhaus and Fields of the Nephilim mixed gritty rock instruments with classically inspired poetic lyrics. Now -- pop-media inspired shock-schlock tossed together by a journalism major drop-out from Boca Raton named Brian Warner.

Bah, I'm getting maudlin. Which, not-so-coincidentally, is the perfect mood for Olde-skoole goth.

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When I was a kid, like seven or eight, I figured out how to count back and forth six months to figure out my half-birthday. Seven and a half was cool. Nine and a half was cool.

Today, I'm thirty-five and a half.