I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

//Philip Larkin

//bilder fra pinterest

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Jeg er dopa
Vi er tropisk
Nord-Europa

Du er kvinne
Jeg er mann
Begge brenner
Samme brann

Jeg er mann
Du er kvinne
La oss gå
Brenne inne

//Øyvind Berg

//bilder fra pinterest

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hey little apple blossom
what seems to be the problem
all the ones you tell your troubles to
they don't really care for you

come and tell me what you're thinking
cause just when the boat is sinking
a little light is blinking
and i will come and rescue you

lots of girls walk around in tears
but that's not for you
you've been looking all around for years
for someone to tell your troubles to

come and sit with me and talk awhile
let me see your pretty little smile
put your troubles in a little pile
and i will sort them out for you
i'll fall in love with you
i think i'll marry you

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For en tid tilbake siden skrev jeg en anmeldelse av romanen Nu av Maxim Grigoriev for Kritiklabbet, den finnes her.

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