"Bach is dead. Bach remains dead. And we have killed him.

How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become Bach simply to appear worthy of it? There has never been a greater deed; and whoever is born after us---for the sake of this deed he will belong to a higher history than all history hitherto.

[Shamelessly stolen from Mislead's signature]

Walking women want to see
The Southern Cross at night.
And so they set aside a sock
And tie their laces tight.

Yes, mournful is the melody
That echoes in their heads.
Without a beat they march along
Believing God is dead.



The weirdest thing happened to me last night.

As dreams often go, I do not know what exactly engendered this response. In the dead middle of the night, the house deathly silent, I woke up laughing. Uncontrollably. It wasn't loud, thankfully, but it was a near incoherent giggle that took me a near 10 minutes to get to subside.

It scared me so badly I started shaking.

I know that I'm not of conventional thought, or I would be at least able to relate to most, if not nigh all of my peers, but this is some that greatly perplexed, and slightly disturbed me. I often think my mind goes on emotional over drive when I sleep, making for most interesting dreams, many of which I cannot make sense.

I need to lay off the Root Beer at night.