Mitch

[size=1] Evil is a perception. Everything is a perception. Evil is just another one of these perceptions. The person who is evil could himself not think himself evil but good. The person who is not evil could not himself good but evil A murderer could be doing what he does and think he is good. Another might say he is evil. God may say it is wrong to sin on a set amountage of laws. Another might say he is evil and there is no sin. Evil is a perception. Everything is about perception And evil is just a word when you get down to it. A word with a meaning. That's what it is if you want a clear-cut meaning. And as Piro has said already, that is what the dictionary says it is. But what's bad is good and what's fair is foul. Remember that. Remember that as you may see something as good, another may see it as bad, and that person is just as right as you are--for he has his own perception. Remember that someone who may be seen as evil and tyranical--such as Hitler--may just be an extremist with a certain perception as to how things should be. Hitler was a bad man they say. I wouldn't always believe what you think. Yes, he did kill many jews via the holocaust. But what were his views? Purification. What of us and enslaving blacks here in the US? What of our mistreatment of them: we saw them as inferior. How did Hitler see the Jews? As inferior. He only set out to do what he did in a much more drastic way. Not to mention, I recall that we read a court case in History class recently It is a court case called [i]Buck v. Bell[/i]. I will post the synospis of it as found [url=http://www.oyez.org/oyez/resource/case/56/print]here[/url] [/size] [quote][b]Title: Buck v. Bell [b]US Citation:[/b] 274 U.S. 200 (1927) Docket: 292 [b]Events:[/b] Argued - April 22, 1927 Decided - May 2, 1927 [b]Facts:[/b] Carrie Buck was a feeble minded woman who was committed to a state mental institution. Her condition had been present in her family for the last three generations. A Virginia law allowed for the sexual sterilization of inmates of institutions to promote the "health of the patient and the welfare of society." Before the procedure could be performed, however, a hearing was required to determine whether or not the operation was a wise thing to do. [b]Question Presented:[/b] Did the Virginia statute which authorized sterilization deny Buck the right to due process of the law and the equal protection of the laws as protected by the Fourteenth Amendment? [b]Conclusion:[/b] The Court found that the statute did not violate the Constitution. Justice Holmes made clear that Buck's challenge was not upon the medical procedure involved but on the process of the substantive law. Since sterilization could not occur until a proper hearing had occurred (at which the patient and a guardian could be present) and after the Circuit Court of the County and the Supreme Court of Appeals had reviewed the case, if so requested by the patient. Only after "months of observation" could the operation take place. That was enough to satisfy the Court that there was no Constitutional violation. Citing the best interests of the state, Justice Holmes affirmed the value of a law like Virginia's in order to prevent the nation from "being swamped with incompetence . . . Three generations of imbeciles are enough." [b]Justices:[/b] Oliver W. Holmes, Jr. Willis Van Devanter James C. McReynolds Louis D. Brandeis William Howard Taft George Sutherland Pierce Butler Edward T. Sanford Harlan Fiske Stone[/quote] [size=1] So here we see that they were trying to destroy the feeblemindeds' abilities to reproduce. We were trying to [i]purify[/i] society--try to get rid of the imbiciles. And how is this much unlike what Hitler did on some level, only that Hitler was more radical? This case was actually one the Nazis brought up in their court case. So, in fact, we're just as bad as Hitler to some level, aren't we? We killed blacks, enslaved them, tried to make it so imbiciles couldn't give birth. Hitler was just more radical. He enforced what he did in a much harsher way. So what is evil? It's for you to decide; it's for you to perceive.[/size]

[quote] Silent Hill 4: The Room First Look Hot on the heels of its announcement of the fourth entry in the Silent Hill series, Silent Hill 4: The Room, Konami gave a presentation on the game at its Gamers' Day today. Producer Akira Yamaoka led the presentation, which consisted of an overview of the game, a disturbing trailer, and a brief Q&A session. While Yamaoka was careful about what was revealed, it's pretty clear that the upcoming game matches, if not surpasses, the creepiness of the previous entries in the series. As mentioned in its announcement, the game will revolve around a man named Henry Townsend who becomes trapped in his apartment. After a week or so, Townsend discovers a mysterious hole in his bathroom and convinces himself that it's the only way out. However, as you'd expect, mysterious holes that appear in the bathroom of your potentially cursed apartment rarely lead to anywhere you'd actually want to go. The stylish trailer was made up of a collage of cinematics, gameplay, and assorted grainy black-and-white imagery that was just enough out of focus to creep you out. The bulk of the trailer was filled with a disturbing look at the menagerie of creatures and people you'll encounter who'll help and hinder you on your journey. We'll go out on a limb and say that the horribly deformed creatures that looked like torsos with two squealing baby heads, wheelchair-riding S&M-attired individuals, sluglike creatures, floating corpselike ghosts, and demonic doglike things will likely fall into the "hinder" category. In fact, outside of one or two reasonably normal-looking people who popped up in the footage, it doesn't look like Henry will be getting much assistance on his toilet portal-fueled adventures. The trailer was given an extra helping in the creepiness department thanks to an unnerving song, sung like a lullaby, that played toward the end of the trailer. Following the trailer, Yamaoka shed some light on the gameplay, which will add some new elements to the expected features. The game will roughly divide your time between the interior of your apartment and the disturbing worlds you'll travel to via the portals you find in your bathroom. Your view will change, as you travel in the game, to fit your location. As a result, the game will use a first-person perspective when you're in Henry's apartment and will switch to third-person when you're exploring the environments you'll reach through the portals. While there wasn't much specific information discussed, Yamaoka said that some elements of gameplay were more in line with the original Silent Hill than with the more recent entries in the franchise. Puzzles in your exploration will once again be on hand for you to solve in order to progress. The game will feature a stronger emphasis on action than previous entries and will include real-time weapon and item selection. This change apparently came about as a result of the team's focus on pacing in Silent Hill 4. As for the game's story, Silent Hill 4 won't share as direct a connection with the other entries in the franchise as Silent Hill 2 did, but there will be some ties to the series. Although specifics weren't mentioned, Yamaoka did say that the portals you'll use to get around will help make such connections. Silent Hill 4: The Room is currently slated for a simultaneous launch in fall of 2004 on the PlayStation 2 and Xbox. While the team is investigating ways to offer content unique to each platform, Yamaoka stated that their main goal was ensuring the simultaneous launch of the game. Look for more on Silent Hill 4: The Room in the coming months. [/quote] [size=1] The official website for the game can be found [url=http://www.konami.com/silenthill4/]here.[/url][/size] [img]http://image.com.com/gamespot/images/2004/screen0/919554_20040109_screen001.jpg[/img] [url]http://image.com.com/gamespot/images/2004/screen0/919554_20040109_screen003.jpg[/url] [img]http://image.com.com/gamespot/images/2004/screen0/919554_20040109_screen006.jpg[/img] [size=1] Here you see the "alternate-looking" room of the image right above it.[/size] [img]http://image.com.com/gamespot/images/2004/screen0/919554_20040109_screen007.jpg[/img] [size=1] This looks like one of the spirits mentioned. Looks interesting to say the least. I'm sure the quality of the graphics will be better than this image serves to show.[/size] [img]http://image.com.com/gamespot/images/2004/screen0/919554_20040109_screen011.jpg[/img] [size=1] This is an interesting image. It looks like that floating "thing" is a monster, and in the distance we can see Henry. It also looks like this image is taken from "the forest," which was mentioned spot you'll go to. [/size] [url=http://www.gamespot.com/ps2/adventure/silenthill4theroom/screens.html?page=14]Looks like one of the characters you'll meet. Might be something like in Silent Hill, with Harry and his daughter, etc. Too big to directly show here. Doesn't this kid have nice eyes and hair?[/url] [url=http://www.gamespot.com/ps2/adventure/silenthill4theroom/screens.html?page=13]Looks like Henry. Again, too big to directly show here.[/url] [url=http://www.gamespot.com/ps2/adventure/silenthill4theroom/screens.html?page=12]Yet another character. Not sure which is which. This might even be Henry, but I'm guessing the other one is.[/url] [url=http://www.gamespot.com/ps2/adventure/silenthill4theroom/screens.html?page=11] One of the new slew of monsters. This one looks particularily awesome, if I don't say so myself. I can't wait to see this thing moving and alive.[/url] [url=http://www.gamespot.com/ps2/adventure/silenthill4theroom/screens.html?page=10] Reminds me of twins, or maybe siamese twins. This thing looks awesome, even moreso than the other one.[/url] [url=http://www.gamespot.com/ps2/adventure/silenthill4theroom/screens.html?page=9] Another character model. They look so life-like and real. It's amazing. This one's of a woman.[/url] [size=1] That's about it for the images. You can go [url=http://www.gamespot.com/ps2/adventure/silenthill4theroom/screenindex.html]here[/url] if you'd like to look at them all by yourself. There's definitely some I missed. Well, what do you all think? I'm pretty excited. The character models look awesome from what I see. Also, there's some new changes being made to the gameplay and so on. Maybe it's only subtle things, but from what I see, it's good they're making some new things. I don't want the series to get stale. The new monsters look interesting too. Especially the "siamese twin" one lol. So yeah. This game looks like it's going to be better. It better be too. Silent Hill 3 wasn't as good as it could've been from what I hear. I can tell that this one might do that. It might push the series to new limits. It's too early to say anything though. It's coming out fall, as it said. I'm excited. I'll be buynig it.[/size]

[size=1] I was planning on making a thread about this game series in general. I think it deserves a nice thread like that. I'd say this is probably my favorite video game series I've ever had the chance to play (other than Final Fantasy, I guess). Why is that, you might ask? This is the type of stuff I'm interested in. Psychological horror. To me, pyschological horror is infinitely more scary than the scares that are in Resident Evil. I think the unknown is what scares someone the most. It's the things we can't see that make us the most scared. The things that we can't understand. This is seen infinitely. People are afraid of the future; death; life; anything and everything that someone fears is something unknown. What could happen, or could be, that is what scares us the most. The Silent Hill series follows a staple context of horror: a deserted town which people wander into with paranormal activity. As the first game says, "every town has its secrets. Some are just darker." This game is far more scarier than Resident Evil to me. Resident Evil doesn't really scare me now at this point. It used to when I was ten years old or so, but that was a while ago. I own Silent Hill and Silent Hill 2. I'm almost to the end of Silent Hill, but I've barely touched Silent Hill 2. If you haven't played Silent Hill, I'd recommend that too. In fact, most people say you should play Silent Hill before Silent Hill 3, since Silent Hill 3 is a direct sequel to the first and answers all the questions. This series is very atmospheric, mysterious, wonderous. The gameplay of the games itself is simple, even maybe a little less enticing than Resident Evil. You go around, and most often you can just run past monsters. Your character controls like a tank, just like in Resident Evil. The game's survival horror: you're given healing items, weapons, and you have to use them sparingly (on higher difficulty levels anyway). There's riddles every so often which really break it up and add a lot. Plus there's just the entire want to find out what the hell is happening in Silent Hill. I think what makes it what it is is just how atmospheric it all is. The fog, the silence at times, the sounds you hear, the music. It's all about atmosphere. I'd say the thing I hate is that sometimes the game is so subtle in hinting at what you're supposed to do next. If I didn't have the FAQs I have for these games, I'd be pretty lost. And I don't want to use the FAQs either, but when you're stuck on some point there's not much else you can do. The games get kind of frustrating at times, kind of tedius and meticulous. You end up having to be slow in your inspections of everything as you go. You end up having to search everywhere you can just to find out what you're supposed to do to get to the next point. So if you want to try these games, I'd say you have to be patient. But it's worth it to struggle through it all. The games are highly interesting and entertaining. Not to mention scary at times too. Another thing that's annoying is wandering around outside Silent Hill. You end up coming on broken streets, and having to take a sidetrack to get to whatever street or place you're trying to get to. It gets kind of annoying, as with what I mentioned above. But if you live past these things, the game isn't bad at all. It's also annoying that you can't go into every house or whatnot you see outside in Silent Hill. It'd be cool if you could, definitely be an interesting thing. But it's understandable that it's not like that. So yeah. That's about all I have to say. I love this series. I've always loved psychological horror, and that's really what this game is. It's "smart" scaring, unlike Resident Evil.[/size]

[size=1] It reads much like a journal which someone might write in, only on a lot less hazy level. Some parts of it were quirky and funny. The part about Attack of the Killer Tennis Balls, the part about you wishing you were Moses and could part all the people in your way, your drawing of classmates. It all comes together in a way that it doesn't. It has a point but doesn't. This has always been one of the ways of writing I've enjoyed the most. By it, one can take something mundane, and if they use it in the right way, with their own quirkness spiced in here and there, maybe something else unexpected, it can all become something that's very enjoyable to read. It made you think but not on some hard level, which is good, and what you should go with a lighthearted, purely random piece. I mean, the piece itself doesn't really have any set and cemented main point--it has no main character, no main plot--it's just what it is. If it came to the point where it had some very concrete things that made you think, and that you went on some other tangent on all about, it would detract a lot from the piece. The piece is meant to be straight forward, and move forward in a way that is seamless, undistrupted. And you did that well--you didn't have any heavily transitioned points, and that works the best. I'm not sure if the use of "you" detracted from it too much for me. I think that, had Alex used "I," this piece would sound a lot different, more forceful. "I went over to the lunch line. All the kids were standing around, all moving. I didn't want to go in there at all...blah blah blah." It just doesn't sound as conversational. I think that Alex was going for this to sound conversational, only in a way that wasn't deterring the reader. I mean, using I like that, it just sounds like, "Going from here to here, then here, then I think this, then I thought this, then I saw this, then she looked like this to me, then I liked her." So I think his use of "you" didn't detract from it too much, for me at least. I'm not saying the use of I would have been bad...but the piece just wouldn't be what it is had he done that. I mean, what's there to use other than you for the way he wrote it? "One thinks that one is." Or maybe "we." Maybe some other choices. I still think he made the right choices in diction. I think one thing that made it so quick and seamless was the shortness of most sentences. Since I recently have been reading [i]Of Mice and Men[/i] I've found that, obviously, using a lot of short sentences will give the piece a faster flow, and more fun reading value in some cases. But just as Alex said, you need to be careful. Always edit things, read over it as you go. Don't get lost on some tangent that you shouldn't be going to. Stay focused on the piece, from keeping it going, always going to something new and fresh in a surprising but unforced way. Don't make sentences too short to where you clip it off, and flow is lost. Don't get lost in the heat of writing, making some really long sentences, or even a few, that don't add up to the shorter ones you've written. So yeah. Although, a few times, I found the flow was wrecked by maybe a too long sentence here or there, it's nothing to complain about. These two pieces work well. They're fun to read. They're a view into Alex's brain. They aren't bogged down by much, and do what's set out to do well. Now Alex, just add the description of Dr. Zank! Or maybe not heh. I still think that's funny, anyway. I think you've inspired me to do a piece like this in my own way, Alex. Expect something eventually, as I get some things to use for it. You know you did a good job, heh. Just as Charles said, it's very wonderful work.[/size]

[size=1] Have you ever heard of quotation marks? Of paragraphs? Of the usage of sentences? Of thinking what the reader is going to know when they read something? I'm also sick of fan fics like this. Learn the basis of writing: an interconnected group of context, with more than just quotation marks, with paragaphs and sentences and punctuation. Oh yeah, and a spell check on it before you posted it never hurt anyone. Who knows. I'm too lazy to read your fan fic or care due to the fact that its format is quite bare-boned and lacking. I mean, it's not as if I don't see this all the time. I don't even quite know why I'm typing this all up, because it's wasted words. Improve the quality of the fan fic. It would help immensly. How long does it take to put effort into something you're going to post? Bleh. Just mind me. I'm not meaning to be offensive or anything. Just improve it , please, or else I should just start closing these types of topics.[/size]

[size=1] It's exactly what Tony said. Just tell your Dad. What's the worst it could do? There's mainly two ways he could generally respond to this: A)He understands B)He doesn't. And in due time he should come to understand your decision. Is a Game Designer really something you want to do with your life? If it is, do it. It sounds more of a "dream" than anything to me, and just as cloricus said, it doesn't sound too appealing to me. Be sure what you're doing is what you want. You don't want to have gone through college-level classes dealing with programming, everything that is generally a Game Designer, and deciding suddenly that it's not for you. It's a waste of money, time, everything really. So be sure that's really what you want, be sure you know what you're getting into by deciding that. My parents divorced when I was three. My Mom soon thereafter married my stepdad I've had ever since. I got used to him, and you'll get used to your dad. It's not the end of the world, you know. Do what HC said if it's such a big deal and needs to be taken that far; but every choice has a consequence--the consequence of this one being that you wouldn't be able to get child support. Hah. Reminds me that my real dad never really paid all of his child support to my mom. The guy owes us thousands of dollars from what I understand. Anyway, everyone's already given all the advice, I'm just here to cement it more in your brain. It's not as if the world is ending, or your "life is going to hell." Things are just a little helter-skelter. Don't let it get in the way of you fixing it.[/size]

[size=1] I took what you said to some heart, Charles.[/size] [center]"Ghosts of the Past"[/center] He walks onto the school playground. Daniel Samms is in his mid-thirties, a worn, inundated figure. When you look in his eyes, you see a man who has lost his dreams. Those eyes are black, as if underneath them hides something. Dan wears a gray jacket as he walks. It blows slightly in the autumn air. All about the sky is grim and overcast and solemn. The sun's face isn't seen at all, only the clouds which seem to be ready to storm. Slowly, as he approaches a swing set, he peers up to the sky. Then he sits down on one of the swings, the swing's faded blue cover now barely seen. The chain-ropes holding the swing creak under the pressure of Daniel Samms' weight. It feels like it's going to break and Dan's going to fall right off as he sits. It sounds like it too. But he stays on. Leaves blow past him as the wind picks up. There's one colored like rust, one colored yellow, one a faded orange. There's more too, but Dan only sees those three as they scuttle off, just blurs. Dan thinks autumn is beautiful. He's always liked it more than any month of the year. He always feels happy in a sad kind of way when it's Autumn. When it's mild, and there's a certain smell in the air. That smell of the dying leaves falling, then blowing in the wind. Dan also likes the rustle sound leaves make. On his swing that sound is what he hears. It gives him the feeling that someone's watching him, maybe. Or maybe there's something crawling on the ground. It even reminds him in a vague way of ghosts. He wonders if it's ghosts that make the leaves blow, if they're the wind. He puts the thought out of his head-it's a silly thought-a silly thought who someone like him shouldn't be thinking. Running his hands through his black hair, feeling its smoothness, he places both hands on the chain-ropes of the swing, feeling the cold metal. He scoots himself up on the swing as much as he can. The swing gives another creak. Again Dan thinks it's going to break. He considers getting off but wants see how long it can hold him. So he stays. Rocking back and forth the swing creaks loudly, bends and gives what resistance it can. Dan takes it slow. He doesn't want to break it. Looking in front of him, swinging slowly, his thoughts begin to wander. They turn to what they can-to his memories. He remembers this playground like anyone would remember theirs. He had gone to school here, had recess out on the playground. Dan was stupid back then, he was ignorant. Back then he was a very small kid, was often teased for being so tiny. He also didn't learn too well. Dan had constantly gotten in trouble and didn't take well to what he was being taught. While all the other kids were learning at the same equal pace, Dan was always behind, impeded. He had been diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder-ADHD. He even took pills for it. But that's not what Dan remembers the most. His parents had always told him that the pill was just an excuse. As well as his ADHD. Dan, his parents thought, had all the potential of any other kid in his class. There was just a need to focus, pay attention. Not be so obstinate. But things like that take time. School for Dan back then wasn't about learning. It was about finding his friends, and that's what he always remembers the most. He particularily remembers he was obsessed with one kid. The kid's name had been Landers Tom. Kids at school just called him LT for short. LT was a chubby, snobby spoiled kid. He had lived quite close to Dan-just a few blocks away. When Dan met him, he had just moved in recently. Tom started hanging out with him once they got to know each other. At first Dan and LT would just do things at school since that was where they became first acquainted. From there, Dan quickly became obsessed with him. All he would think about was being like LT. Every night Dan would sit in his room on his bed, his hands cupped in prayer. "Dear God," he'd say, "please bless my Momma and my Daddy and my Grandpa and Grandma and my dogs Itsy and Spud. And bless all the people that are sickened and don't have a home." Then he'd stop for a second, glaring around his dark room, looking especially close at his door. No one would ever be there and so he'd continue on. This time he'd shut his eyes tight, thinking deeply. He would feel out what he was saying. "Dear God," he'd begin again. "Please make me just like LT. I want to be fat like him, I want to have good parents like his. Please I pray that I become fat like LT, and I get a computer like him and that he likes me." Maybe Dan would add more, maybe less. But he always ended his prayers with that prayer-he thought that's what prayers were for. It was what he Daddy and Mommy had told him. They'd said that praying was "asking for something to happen, something good." And little Dan thought being like LT was even more than good. It was something that needed to be done. Soon Dan wasn't just hanging out with LT at school. He began hanging out at his house as much as he could. He'd call LT each and every day. "LT, can you play?" Dan would always ask. "I'd really like to come over." The calls became so frequent that LT couldn't stand it much longer. But still Dan came over on almost a daily basis. Dan loved LT's parents. LT's dad, Whit, was a grizzly man in his late sixties. Whit had balding hair, a white beard and lined face. He looked quite as old as he was. Whit had even served in a war using a bazooka, and was now a lawyer. Dan found later he was also a closet alcoholic. LT's mom was much younger than Whit. Her name was Tamara. She was a woman in her late forties with fading beauty. Dan remembers she smoked and that he'd often smell it all in LT's house. She had long, messy moppy hair, a thin, lined face and crescent lips. To Dan she looked like she had once been beautiful, but it had mostly faded. Dan later found that she too was a closet alcoholic. Dan would have never known that his parents were alcoholics. They were such nice people to him. When he'd come over Tamara would always make LT and him eat fruit. "Nutrition's the best you can do," she would often say. Dan remembers eating strawberries with powdered sugar all the time. And bananas, and other nutritious foods he would have never touched had it not been for Tamara. LT had it made. He had three video game systems-a Super Nintendo, a Regular Nintendo, a Sega. He had a computer. He had a dog, a cat, and chinchillas. Chinchillas were these weird creatures. They looked to Dan like squirrels and not much else. Tamara always had them in their outside cage. It didn't make sense to Dan-buying a pet and never bonding with them, or playing with them? He much more preferred dogs, even cats. LT did have it all-all any child could want. Action figures, toy cars, an electric mini train set, a big screen TV. He had it all. Anything anyone could imagine, Dan knew LT had it. LT and Whit were even fond of playing board games together. They'd play Monopoly or some other game, and if LT would win his dad would buy him whatever he wanted-maybe a squirt gun, a new game-anything he wanted. Dan could never believe this-he had never heard of his parents doing anything like that for him. Not ever. Dan was so jealous of LT. Dan remembers LT would make fun of him too. He remembers that he'd often look at LT's face if they were watching a movie, to see his reaction. And when commercials came on, Dan would make up his own rendition of it. It would often contain fart noises, and language that appeared obscene at the time. Words like "poopy" or "damn" or "crap" or any other silly kid phrase. If there was one of them, Dan used it. When Dan would do these things, and look at LT, LT would often say, "Why do you look at me all the time? It's annoying." Or if Dan was making his own rendition of a commercial, LT would say, "Cut it out. It's not funny." Dan has so many memories with LT. He remembers LT would watch porn on TV, and say he was, "Getting it so up." And if LT had any of his other friends with him-the ones he probably thought were his real friends-they'd all say things together. "Oh look at her, she's so pretty"; "I'm getting really hard"; "Look at my pants, they're getting so big"; "I wish I could have a mom like that." They'd say things like that. Dan didn't have any attraction to women back then. But he'd play along, saying all the things they were saying. But he never meant it. LT had a love for wrestling. Eventually LT wanted a trampoline, so he and his dad Whit played a game of two-player Risk to see if he could get it. LT won. Dan went with them to get the trampoline. LT chose a big one that was black all over and bright blue around the edges. Dan and LT would go on top of LT's roof and jump down onto the trampoline. It was always great fun. Dan looks back at this and just laughs as he is still slowly swinging, still hearing the creaking of the swing. He was such a silly boy, and it still hasn't left him all the way. Dan later found out that LT's dad died of alcohol poisoning. But by then Dan had moved away to Nebraska. The clouds above Dan are now heavier and darkening. He looks up at them. Dan still can't believe how stupid he used to be. He used to think LT was everything. He would live and breathe LT. That kid had never really been his friend. LT was just a snobby, prissy spoiled brat now that Dan saw it. His entire family was so fake. His parents would act like they were fine and nice people, when really they were closet alcoholics. Dan sees just how hypocritical it was that his mom always made them eat good food. She was the one that was killing herself by smoking and drinking. Smoking is such a selfish act. Dan can feel that it's going to rain. He can't believe how much his thoughts can trail, just like the leaves blowing all over in the Autumn air. To think that he's in his mid-thirties and he's still thinking like this. It makes him wonder. Makes him wonder if people ever grow up. Are they always just kids? Dan would like to think so. Dan would like to think even as adults we're afraid of everything we see. That we fear all that we do. Dan doesn't know anymore-he's just being silly again-of course adults grow up. He stops rocking back and forth on the swing, takes his hands off the chain ropes. It's going to rain. He should get out of there before it gets bad. Dan is glad he had come to school another time. It had been a long time since he had. Schools always gives him strange thoughts. And there's so many things to think about. Just as the storm started that Autumn evening, Daniel Samm could be seen walking off. He left the place that had partly made him the way he was. He left for the last time. Rain drops fell down as the last view of him could be seen. The pitter patter of rain made the sound of his old, broken car barely heard. In his wake he left al his thoughts and kept them with him. Soon after the storm got worse and hail could be seen falling. It fell in that school's playground. The playground was now empty. The blue-bottomed swing that Daniel had touched could still be seen swinging slowly and the leaves could still be seen scuttling around. It was just as Dan had said to himself-it was like there were ghosts here. Ghosts of the past.

[size=1] Yeah, I'm sure I'd agree with you if I saw Dances with Wolves, heh. But still, Last Samurai is a good movie, not needing of an award or not.[/size]

[size=1] Yes Charles, I was just being sarcastic, and also showing you that originality doesn't matter. See how silly it is to say that, just because Toy Story had the same computer animation as Finding Nemo, that it's not originial? This was my point. Just because Last Samurai took things from Dances with Wolves doesn't make it any lesser of a movie at all. That was my point by what I was saying. And I totally agree with you--Nemo wasn't much like Toy Story at all. Nemo had a deeper, more adult message. I was just pointing out, as I've said, that just because Toy Story has the same computer graphics, that doesn't make Finding Nemo not original; and in comparison and retrospect, just because Last Samurai stole things from Dances with Wolves, that doesn't make Last Samurai any less original or any less better. That's my personal opinion, though, heh. Charles Bobs can have his own. ^_^[/size]

[size=1] I hate the christianity references. There's a lot better bands out there--check the ones Tony stated. Those are probably far better, and from what I've heard of Curve, there's no doubt that they are better lol. "Bring Me to Life" was honestly a good song, but I've already heard it enough, and with a general audience that worships this band, and coon over them, and knowing that there's better out there, I'm going to go with what's better out there, heh.[/size]

[size=1] [b]The Last Samurai[/b] was the best movie I've seen all year. I haven't really seen Dances with Wolves, so I can't comment on what Charles said; but honestly, something like that shouldn't get in the way of a film winning something it deserves. While there are original movies out there, I think that there's been so many movies, that you could, within some reason, point out some point that isn't original in a movie. Movies, to me, aren't about orginiality. They're about telling a story, just like writing, in some aspects, is. And the story that [b]The Last Samurai[/b] told, and how it was presented, and so many aspects of this movie in general, were amazing. Charles, if Finding Nemo has a shot, it's not original. It's just like Toy Story, only with fish. :rolleyes: Heh. The Matrix: Revolutions, it wasn't original at all, it was just another Matrix all over again, with its special effects for its prosthetics and main draw point. :rolleyes: Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King wasn't original at all. There's been plenty of movies about Kings, even some fantasy movies. Lord of the Rings is just your typical fantasy story of good versus evil, your cliche story, told so many times in movies, of the bad guys against the good guys. And there were already two other Lord of the Rings movies, the first was original, but the second two weren't, they took everything from the first and just expanded. :rolleyes: Beauty and the Beast. What a horrid movie, lol. :p I say everyone, if they want to see one more good movie this year, should go see [b]The Last Samurai[/b]. The movie was amazing, and stands out much farther than anything--even Lord of the Rings, and that right there is saying a lot. I highly doubt Lord of the Rings will win Best Picture. We'll see though. I still think Last Samurai deserves it. It's honestly the best movie, if you actually were to go see it and know. ;p Or of course, maybe I'm just an opinionated *****, and I'm wrong in saying this. But I'm sure many people that saw Last Samurai would stand where I've stood and say what I've said the same way. The movie was honestly amazing, originality aside.[/size]

[size=1] Pretty good stories so far, nicely random. Honestly a-though, the-a second one was-a annoying-a. I-a was a-a wondering-a just-a why-a it was-a so annoying-a, and I-a couldn't-a figure it-a out. Oh-a well-a. Heh. I combined your two posts together; double posting isn't allowed.[/size]

[b]Her Name Won't Die with Me[/b] When in the shoulder, the highway all about cars smoke steam, shout. High speed going about. No order here. And look, and stop, and yield your right of ways. Stop at railroads always. No order here. On a highway, the breeze in your hair, going high speed, no cares. In your tight little car, on the right side of the road. High speed. Driving fast. The car is a pink little smother, much like markers of a child. And the woman still remembers the child as she goes. The mile markers are like eyes-- green, white-- they glare at her. She counts down. In the rearview mirror of her tight little car there's her face black hair, intelligent eyes, smart, urbane, picturesque it's all clear on the mirror. Where is she going where is she going to be. She looks in the rearview mirror. Objects in the rearview mirror may appear closer than they are. And do you remember someone she held dear. And do you remember he was driving his own car and she feared for him, and knew. He crashed, steel, metal, crude. As the wind blows through her hair on the highway her thoughts turn to it. She swears to the left of her he's right there driving still, trying to outchase her. But he's farther than she knows. Farther than she can touch, something tangible isn't much. And he's beyond that now. I've seen pictures of him, seen her talk all about him over again. And where is she now on the highway? Still speeding? High speed she's a pink blur. Going going going gone. Did I just hold my breath? Did I just cough, sputter, speak? She's going going going gone. She's on the highway the road is long. I'm on it too we're splitting away. She's got him to hold to, to remember. So she stares in the rearview mirror. I can see her now, I can see her. Her eyes look like they're missing something, and they're full of so much pain. And in the rear view mirror it looks all the same. You got to know that objects in the rearview mirror may appear closer than they are. She's looking only at glass reflections of what's in back. But what she sees is going to make her, break her the future that she holds. It's all in back of her as her car drones. And she's leaving she's off and away. Where's she going? Won't she stay? And all those times I laughed, and all those times we spoke won't matter in the end. It's just digital garble. Reception's gone, it's fading away. You can't hear it any longer it's just a pause. Little time to repose. It's gone. I remember she sent me the most welcoming message and she welcomed me to my responsibilities here. She was a real friend. She was meant to be here, and meant to leave. She's on that dusty road she waved to me as I turned in the exit and ended up in more tangled of a mess. She's just the same, she doesn't know. She's just going about. She's lost. If transporation's from a car made of metal spinning on wheels then in the end we crash ours and don't know what we feel. The body's just car the soul ends up where it's far. And we never know where we're going we end up where we stop after we go so far. And objects in the rearview mirror they may appear closer than they are. I remember I got all over her when she talked about how she smokes. Told her it's selfish, it's killing yourself. Told her high against it. She stopped I heard, stopped smoking. She told me without her voice. Only said it in words typed up. The only way I've ever talked to her. I was glad for her real glad. For smoking's taking away a life one that's deserved to be had. I told her it's best to just be comforted rather than try to understand something you'll never know. And I know she's been crying about him lately and I know how much he meant to her. That little kid I wish I knew. She's still on that highway and so am I. We're all on it we don't know why. Where will we end up? Where will we sigh? Where will be together? Where will we die? Where will we be? Where will it all come together? When will we see? Her name won't die with me. Her name won't die with me. She gives this place one last look one looking over. Then her car is a pink blur in the distance. It's bold. And eccentric. And pale. She puts on her blinker she waves her good-byes I can see her she just cries. She's gone. She's gone, and I'll remember her name.

[size=1] I was originally just going to post this article I have in the Poetry forum, but I think this forum is much more frequented, as well as is a better place to post it for many other reasons, the main being this forum is a place of discussion and analysis. The basis of this thread be to finally open some people's eyes to the process that is embalming, and in general, the process that is a funeral. I would like to hear what you think of funerals; I would like to know if you think they are a waste of time, if they immortalize death and the person afflicted with mentioned affliction; I would like to know if death in a funeral is over-romanticisized. For death itself is an inevitable thing. I would like to know if you think having a funeral gives any closure to the ones who attend it. I don't think so. When someone dies it is all despair, all sadness, all morose. The world is such a worse place to someone when one one has loved is not there. I can understand this, to an extent. But what's there to lament? Something you knew was going to happen to you, that has happened first to someone you love much? If you knew it was coming, you must have seen its inevitablities. It's obvious many people can't accept death in general though. But back to the topic at hand--the funeral. Does the funeral provide any amount of closure? I don't think so. Tell me, does seeing your loved one one last time, all dolled up, all superficial, and dead, does this make any closure? I doubt it. I'd think more along the lines that it leads to less closure, because it leads more manifested exposure to your gloomy, saddened, lost disposition of lament and miss. I know that if I would see someone dead-eyed, in their casket, it is not going to make me feel better, it is going to make me feel worse; and it is going to stay in my memories--a memory that is the last time I saw this person before they were forever inhumed, or cremated, or whatever they so sought to do. Plus, think about it. What is the real reason funerals exist? Sure, there's the immortalization of a dead one, sure there's the inhuming of the deceased in the ground, sure there's the church procession (if so there is one), sure there is all this and more--but what is it that gives all this? It is the helplessness and easily demeaned mind of one who is getting over the loss that is death. This person is willed to waste opulent amounts of money just to fuel this so-called "proper" procession which will let the person grieve, and let the deceased find "peace." And so they pay this money--money, money, money--even in death one has to pay for one's death. So, with life support, and whatever else money, one gets one "finale," one last toast to life's good fortune--they get a party where they don't even exist, at least physically, that is all about sadness, eulogies, ineffable emotions, all the things which death is so-set to be. Realistically, what is death? It's dying. Nothing more. Death is not a funeral, death is not embalming, death is not mourning, death is not being buried in the ground; death is a Fate, one which we must accept on some ground, and go on with our lives until it happens to us. Death isn't some big deal. It's just what it is--it's death--it is not some flowery, fluent, immortalizing, tantalizing thing. It's death. It is "a permanent cessation of all vital functions," it is the ending of a life. And what happens afterwards, I will not concern myself with; nor should anyone. And that is not what this thread is about--it is about [i]funerals[/i]--more specifically, as the article which I am getting ready to aquaint you all with, it is about embalming. So don't debase to such discussion. The main focus is on the physical all our lives. How we look, how much money we have. Even the brains we use to think, and their perceptions are based on physical manifestations. Because what we saw with our eyes, and what we smelt with our olfactory system--and what we heard with our ears--this is what pools into our mind and creates thought, and creates images, and creates the outward reality we see. We are physical beings, there's no doubting it. Naturally, we are prone to it. The funeral industry is just another thing capitalizing on the "physical." Its main purpose is not death at all--but immortalizing it, making it pleasurable for the grievers, and giving a kind of closure that isn't closure at all. Tell me, what does death have to do with making someone look like a doll via cosmetics, and other superficial devices? It has nothing to do with it. Death has nothing to do with that. Death is the "permanent cessation of all vital functions." I myself find the prospect of being buried, perhaps, quite useless. I myself will probably just be cremated. But this is what I believe. The basis of this thread is what you think of the funeral industry--more specifically embalming--and also how you are going to have a funeral, as well as any other thing pertaining to funerals you would like to say within reason. Don't begin going into some debacle about death and what happens after it, and so on. Focus on this topic, not things which generally don't pertain to it and add to what it is about. In the end the funeral industry is about the money. They have so many inane, preposterous gadgets it's enough to make one sick with grief themselves. From the graves--tombstones--cosmetics used by embalmers--on and on and on--it's just to the point where I can't even see why people would waste such large amounts of money on such an inevitable thing. I mean, just think about it. Is death about a funeral? Is death about that? Is it about embalming? Is it about any of this? It's much like a car, or anything you can think of. What is the purpose of a car? It is transportation. It is about getting from point A to point B. Yet some people buy extravagant cars, with leather seats, and large wheels, and the most technologically advanced features, and a well-polished, beautiful paint job, and a powerful engine. And what is the person doing with this expensive, materialistic, expansive, imperially claimed car? He is just going to travel, the same as a poorer man is going to. The only difference is he's wasted his time on features to his car that look to the eyes more beautiful than his. Death is the same, it's going from point A to point B, and arriving at point B. How do you plan to travel there? Do you plan to get superfluous gadgetry that makes the wheels spin faster, makes everything over-glamorized for its purpose? I'm not going to. Anyway, here is the article I hinted at. I typed it all up myself, since I couldn't find the article on the internet. It may have errors in it at points, but I typed it well enough, and to the best of my abilities for the time I have to spare. It is by a woman named Jessica Mitford. She has a book as well, that talks about the American way of death. But for all purposes, I haven't read it yet. But I do have this article here, as I've said. I believe it is important for any poster in this thread to read this said article. It has many things which apply to the above post, and it's a general synopsis of what, exactly, an embalmer is and does, as well as what the American way of death is. I know there's people here from other countries. Do you recall ever having an open-casket funeral? Is it common practice where you live? From Mitford's information on this point, only the United States and Canada do. I do realize this article is pretty verbosely lengthed. I'd still ask that, if you don't feel like reading it all, you perhaps save it, or read it in parts; if you can't do this, at least scan it. I'm sure you'll be interested in it; I know I was interested throughout reading it. Now, take an open step to the curtained window, with its dainteries and its beautiful veneer, and open those curtains, seeing [i]"Behind the Formaldehyde Curtain.":[/size] [quote][center][b]"Behind the Formaldehyde Curtain"[/b] [i]By Jessica Mitford[/i][/center] The drama begins to unfold with the arrival of the corpse at the mortuary. Alas, poor Yorick! How surprised he would be to see how his counterpart of today is whisked off to a funeral parlor and is in short order sprayed, sliced, pierced, pickled, trussed, trimmed, creamed, waxed, painted, rouged, and neatly dressed-transformed from a common corpse into a Beautiful Memory Picture. This process is known in the trade as embalming and restorative art, and is so universally employed in the United States and Canada that the funeral director does it routinely, without consulting corpse or kin. He regards as eccentric those few who are hardy enough to suggest that it might be dispensed with. Yet no law requires embalming, no religious doctrine commends it, nor is it dictated by considerations of health, sanitation, or even of personal daintiness. In no part of the world but in Northern America is it widely used. The purpose of embalming is to make the corpse presentable for viewing in a suitably costly container; and here too the funeral director routinely, without first consulting the family, prepares the body for public display. Is all this legal? The processes to which a dead body may be subjected are after all to some extent circumscribed by law. In most states, for instance, the signature of next of kin must be obtained before an autopsy may be performed, before the deceased may be cremated, before the body may be turned over to a medical school for research purposes; or such provision must be made in the decedent's will. In the case of embalming, no such permission is required nor is it ever sought. A textbook, [i]The Principles and Practices of Embalming[/i], comments on this: "There is some question regarding the legality of much that is done within the preparation room." The author points out that it would be most unusual for a responsible member of a bereaved family to instruct the mortician, in so many words, to "embalm" the body of a deceased relative. The very term "embalming" is so seldom used that the mortician must reply upon custom in the matter. The author concludes that unless the family specifies otherwise, the act of entrusting the body to the care of a funeral establishment carries with it an implied permission to go ahead and embalm. Embalming is indeed a most extraordinary procedure, and one must wonder at the docility of Americans who each year pay hundreds of millions of dollars for its perpetuation, blissfully ignorant of what it is all about, what is done, how it is done. Not one in ten thousand has any idea of what actually takes place. Books on the subject are extremely hard to come by. They are not found in most libraries or bookshops. In an era when huge television audiences watch surgical operations in the comfort of their living rooms, when, thanks to the animated cartoon, the geography of the digestive system has become familiar territory even to the nursery school set, in a land where the satisfaction of curiosity about almost all matters is a national pastime, the secrecy surrounding embalming can, surely, hardly be attributed to the inherent gruesomeness of the subject. Custom in this regard has within this century suffered a complete reversal. In the early days of American embalming, when it was performed in the home of the deceased, it was almost mandatory for some relative to stay by the embalmer's side and witness the procedure. Today, family members who might wish to be in attendance would certainly be dissuaded by the funeral director. All others, except apprentices, are excluded by law from the preparation room. A close look at what does actually take place may explain a large measure of the undertaker's intractable reticence concerning a procedure that has become his major [i]raison d'etre[/i]. Is it possible he fears that public information about embalming might lead patrons to wonder if they really want this service? If the funeral men are loath to discuss the subject outside the trade, the reader may, understandably, be equally loath to go on reading at this point. For those who have the stomach for it, let us part the formaldehyde curtain. . . . The body is first laid out in the undertaker's morgue-or rather, Mr. Jones is reposing in the preparation room-to be readied to bid the world farewell. The preparation room in any of the better funeral establishments has the tiled and sterile look of a surgery, and indeed the embalmer-restorative artist who does his chores there is beginning to adopt the term "dermasurgeon" (appropriately corrupted by some mortician-writers as "demi-surgeon") to describe his calling. His equipment, consisting of scalpels, scissors, augers, forceps, clamps, needles, pumps, tubes, bowls and basins, is crudely imitative of the surgeon's, as is his technique, acquired in a nine- or twelve-month post-high-school course in an embalming school. He is supplied by an advanced chemical industry with a bewildering array of fluids, sprays, pastes, oils, powders, creams, to fix or soften tissue, shrink or distend it as needed, dry it here, restore the moisture there. There are cosmetics, waxes and paints to fill and cover features, even plaster of Paris to replace entire limbs. There are ingenious aids to prop and stabilize the cadaver: a Vari-Pose Head Rest, the Edwards Arm and Hand Positioner, the Repose Block (to support the shoulders during embalming), and the Throop Foot Positioner, which resembles old-fashioned socks. Mr. John H. Eckels, president of the Eckels College of Mortuary Science, thus describes the first part of the embalming procedure: "In the hands of a skilled practitioner, this work may be done in a comparatively short time and without mutilating the body other than by slight incision-so slight that it scarcely would cause serious inconvenience if made upon a living person. It is necessary to remove the blood, and doing this not only helps in the disinfecting, but removes the principal cause of disfigurements due to discoloration." Another textbook discusses the all-important time element: "The earlier this is done, the better, for every hour that elapses between death and embalming will add to the problems and complications encountered. . . ." Just how soon should one get to embalming? The author tells us, "On the basis of such scanty information made available to this profession through its rudimentary and haphazard system of technical research, we must conclude the best results are to be obtained if the subject is embalmed before life is completely extinct-that is, before cellular death has occurred. In the average case, this would mean within an hour after somatic death." For those who feel there is something a little rudimentary, not to say haphazard, about this advice, a comforting thought is offered by another writer. Speaking of fears entertained in early days of premature burial, he points out, "One of the effects of embalming by chemical injection, however, has been to dispel fears of live burial." How true; once the blood is removed, the chances of live burial are indeed remote. To return to Mr. Jones, the blood is drained out through the veins and replaced with embalming fluid pumped through the arteries. As noted in [i]The Principles and Practices of Embalming[/i], "every operator has a favorite injection and drainage point-a fact which becomes a handicap only if he fails or refuses to forsake his favorites when conditions demand it." Typical favorites are the carotid artery, femoral artery, jugular vein, subclavian vein. There are various choices of embalming fluids. If Flextone is used, it will produce a "mild, flexible rigidity. The skin retains a velvety softeness, the tissues are rubbery and pliable. Ideal for women and children." It may be blended with B. and G. Products Company's Lyf-Lyk tint, which is guaranteed to reproduce "nature's own skin texture . . . the velvety appearance of living tissue." Suntone comes in three separate tints: Suntan; Special Cosmetic Tint, a pink shade "especially indicated for young female subjects"; and Regular Cosmetic Tint, moderately pink. About three to six gallons of dyed and perfumed solution of formaldehyde, glycerin, borax, phenol, alcohol and water is soon circulating through Mr. Jones, whose mouth has been sewn together with a "needle directed upward between the upper lip and gum and brought out through the left nostril," with the corners raised slightly "for a more pleasant expression. If he should be bucktoothed, his teeth are cleaned with Bon Ami and coated with colorless nail polish. His eyes, meanwhile, are closed with flesh-tinted eye caps and eye cement. The next step is to have at Mr. Jones with a thing called a trocar. This is a long, hollow needle attached to a tube. It is jabbed into the abdomen, poked around the entrails and chest cavity, the contents of which are pumped out and replaced with "cavity fluid." This done, and the hole in the abdomen sewn up, Mr. Jones's face is heavily creamed (to protect the skin from burns which may be caused by leakage of the chemicals), and he is covered with a sheet and left unmolested for a while. But not for long-there is more, much more, in store for him. He has been embalmed, but not yet restored, and the best time to start the restorative work is eight to ten hours after embalming, when the tissues have become firm and dry. The object of all this attention to the corpse, it must be remembered, is to make it presentable for viewing in an attitude of healthy repose. "Our customs require the presentation of our dead in semblance of normality . . . unmarred by the ravages of illness, disease or mutilation," says Mr. J. Sheridan Mayer in his [i]Restorative Art[/i]. This is rather a large order since few people die in full bloom of health, unravaged by illness and unmarked by some disfigurement. The funeral industry is equal to the challenge: "In some cases the gruesome appearance of a mutilated or disease-ridden subject may be quite discouraging. The task of restoration may seem impossible and shake the confidence of the embalmer. This is the time for intestinal fortitude and determination. Once the formative work is begun and affected tissues are cleaned or removed, all doubts of success vanish. It is surprising and gratifying to discover the results which may be obtained." The embalmer, having allowed an appropriate interval of elapse, returns to the attack, but now he brings into play the skill and equipment of sculptor and cosmetician. Is a hand missing? Casting one in plaster of Paris is a simple matter. "For replacement purposes, only a cast of the back of the hand is necessary; this is within the ability of the average operator and is quite adequate." If a lip or two, a nose or an ear should be missing, the embalmer has at hand a variety of restorative waxes with which to model replacements. Pores and skin texture are simulated by stippling with a little brush, and over this cosmetics are laid on. Head off? Decapitation cases are rather routinely handled. Ragged edges are trimmed, and head joined to torso with a series of splints, wires and sutures. It is a good idea to have a little something at the neck-a scarf or high collar-when time for viewing comes. Swollen mouth? Cut out tissue as needed from inside the lips. If too much is removed, the surface contour can easily be restored by padding with cotton. Swollen necks and cheeks are reduced by removing tissue through vertical incisions made down each side of the neck. "When the deceased is casketed, the pillow will hide the suture incisions . . . as an extra precaution against leakage, the suture may be painted with liquid sealer." The opposite condition is more likely to present itself-that of emaciation. His hypodermic syringe now loaded with massage cream, the embalmer seeks out and fills the hollowed and sunken areas by injection. In this procedure the backs of the hands and fingers and the under-chin area should not be neglected. Positioning the lips is a problem that recurrently challenges the ingenuity of the embalmer. Closed too tightly, they tend to give a stern, even disapproving expression. Ideally, embalmers feel, the lips should give the impression of being ever so slightly parted, the upper lip protruding slightly for a more youthful appearance. This takes some engineering, however, as the lips tend to drift apart. Lip drift can sometimes be remedied by pushing one or two straight pins through the inner margin oft he lower lip and then inserting them between the two upper teeth. If Mr. Jones happens to have no teeth, the pins can just as easily be anchored in his Armstrong Face Former and Denture Replacer. Another method to maintain lip closure is to dislocate the lower jaw, which is then held in its new position by a wire run through holes which have been drilled through the upper and lower jaws at the midline. As the French are fond of saying, [i]il faut souffrir pour etre belle[/i]. If Mr. Jones has died of jaundice, the embalming fluid will very likely turn him green. Does this deter the embalmer? Not if he has intestinal fortitude. Masking pastes and cosmetics are heavily laid on, burial garments and casket interiors color-correlated with particular care, and Jones is displayed beneath rose-colored lights. Friends will say "How [i]well[/i] he looks." Death by carbon monoxide, on the other hand, can be rather a good thing from the embalmer's viewpoint: "One advantage is the fact that this type of discoloration is an exaggerated form of a natural pink coloration." This is nice because the healthy glow is already present and needs little attention. The patching and filling completed, Mr. Jones is now shaved, washed and dressed. Cream-based cosmetic, available in pink, flesh, suntan, brunette, and blond, is applied to his hands and face, his hair is shampooed and combed (and, in the case of Mrs. Jones, set), his hands manicured. For the horny-handed son of toil and special care must be taken; cream should be applied to remove ingrained grime, and the nails cleaned. "If he were not in the habit of having them manicured in life, trimming and shaping is advised for better appearance-never questioned by kin." Jones is now ready for casketing (this is the present participle verb of "to casket"). In this operation his right shoulder should be depressed slightly "to turn the body a bit to the right and soften the appearance of lying flat on the back." Positioning the hands is a matter of importance, and special rubber positioning blocks may be used. The hands should be cupped slightly for a more lifelike, relaxed appearance. Proper placement of the body requires a delicate sense of balance. It should lie as high as possible in the casket, yet not so high that the lid, when lowered, will hit the nose. On the other hand, we are cautioned, placing the body too low "creates the impression that the body is in a box." Jones is next wheeled into the appointed slumber room where a few last touches may be added-his favorite pipe placed in his hand or, if he was a great reader, a book propped into position. (In the case of little Master Jones a Teddy bear may be clutched.) Here he will hold open house for a few days, visiting hours 10 A.M. to 9 P.M. All now being in readiness, the funeral director calls a staff conference to make sure that each assistant knows his precise duties. Mr. Wilber Kriege writes: "This makes your staff feel that they are part of the team, with a definite assignment that must be properly carried out if the whole plan is to succeed. You never heard of a football coach who failed to talk to his entire team before they go on the field. They have drilled on the plays they are to execute for hours and days, and yet the successful coach knows the importance of making even the bench-warming third-string substitute feel that he is important if the game is to be won." The winning of [i]this[/i] game is predicated upon glass-smooth handling of the logistics. The funeral director has notified the pallbearers whose names were furnished by the family, has arranged for the presence of clergyman, organist, and soloist, has provided transportation for everybody, has organized and listed the flowers sent by friends. In [i]Psychology of Funeral Service[/i] Mr. Edward A. Martin points out: "He may not always do as much as the family thinks he is doing, but it is his helpful guidance that they appreciate in knowing they are proceeding as they should . . . . The important thing is how well his services can be used to make the family believe they are giving unlimited expression to their own sentiment." The religious service may be held in a church or in the chapel of the funeral home; the funeral director vastly prefers the latter arrangement, for not only is it more convenient for him but it affords him the opportunity to show off his beautiful facilities to the gathered mourners. After the clergyman has had his say, the mourners queue up to file past the casket for a last look at the deceased. The family is [i]never[/i] asked whether they want an open-casket ceremony; in the absence of their instruction to the contrary, this is taken for granted. Consequently well over 90 per cent of all American funerals feature the open casket-a custom unknown in other parts of the world. Foreigners are astonished by it. An English woman living in San Francisco described her reaction in a letter to the writer: [center][size=1] I myself have attended only one funeral here-that of an elderly fellow worker of mine. After the service I could not understand why everyone was walking towards the coffin (sorry, I mean casket), but thought I had better follow the crowd. It shook me rigid to get there and find the casket open and poor old Oscar lying there in his brown tweed suit, wearing a suntan makeup and just the wrong shade of lipstick. If I had not been extremely fond of the old boy, I have a horrible feeling that I might have giggled. Then and there I decided that I could never face another American funeral-even dead.[/size][/center] The casket (which has been resting throughout the service on a Classic Beauty Ultra Metal Casket Bier) is now transferred by a hydraulically operated device called Porto-Lift to a balloon-tired, Glide Easy casket carriage which will wheel it to yet another conveyance, the Cadillac Funeral Coach. This may be lavender, cream, light green-anything but black. Interiors, of course, are color-correlated, "for the man who cannot stop short of perfection." At graveside, the casket is lowered into the earth. This office, once the prerogative of friends of the deceased, is now performed by a patented mechanical lowering device. A "Lifetime Green" artificial grass mat is at the ready to conceal the sere earth, and overhead, to conceal the sky, is a portable Steril Chapel Tent ("resists the intense heat and humidity of summer and terrific storms of winter . . . available in Silver Grey, Rose or Evergreen"). Now is the time for the ritual scattering of earth over the coffin, as the solemn words, "earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust" are pronounced by the officiating cleric. This can boldly be accomplished "with a mere flick of the wrist with the Gordon Leak-Proof Earth Dispenser. No grasping of a handful of dirt, no soiled fingers. Simple, dignified, beautiful, reverent! The modern way!" The Gordon Earth Dispenser (at $5) is of nickel-plated brass construction. It is not only "attractive to the eye and long wearing"; it is also "one of the 'tools' for building better public relations" if presented as "an appropriate non-commercial gift" to the clergyman. It is shaped something like a saltshaker. Untouched by human hand, the coffin and the earth are now united. It is in the function of directing the participants through this maze of gadgetry that the funeral director has assigned to himself his relatively new role of "grief therapist." He has relieved the family of every detail, he has revamped the corpse to look like a living doll, he has arranged for it to nap for a few days in a slumber room, he has put on a well-oiled performance in which the concept of [i]death[/i] played no part whatsoever-unless it was inconsiderately mentioned by the clergyman who conducted the religious service. He has done everything in his power to make the funeral a real pleasure for everybody concerned. He and his team have given their all to score an upset victory over death. [/quote]

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by vicky [/i] [B][SIZE=1][B]Hmm... sounds good, but one question, which is a pretty dumb one, but... Is it okay if you base one on a banned member(s)? I mean... I have a really good one, but... could we?[/SIZE][/B] [/B][/QUOTE] [size=1] Yes. PT already based one on that as it seems. It may seem stupid to ask such a simple question, but it's not. At least you're sure you're doing things as they should be done lol. But from my understanding, yes; you can do it on any member, banned or not.[/size]

[size=1] I'm a real kind, cordial, empathetical person. I've always been this way. When I leave my classes at school, if I'm in a good mood, I say good-bye to the teacher. I especially say it if I like that teacher. I saw you're welcome every single day at school when I punch in my number and the lady says thank you to me. When I feel I've done wrong to someone, I say sorry (as I did to Alex). When I'm in a bad mood, I usually keep quiet, and try to act as if I'm in a good mood. My interaction with ladies at this point in time is lacking. But those that I do interact with, I am kind to. If I were to have a girlfriend, I would definitely treat her as if she were "the cat's pajamas," as the saying goes. I'd hold doors open for her. I'd be kind in what I'd say. I'd probably be the last to engage in physical contact, unless the time was right, and I could feel it. I often hold doors open for other people. It's kind to do anything like this in general. It depends on my mood though. Lately I haven't been in such a good mood, but I stll do help other people. My friend didn't have money today. So I bought him pizza. He was going to give me a Dr. Pepper, but I refused. I got it for free. It's what friends are for. I just try to be kind to people, and dignified in what I do, even if I might think elsewise. I always try to put other people in front of me if I can, because I find that it makes me feel much better to help other people instead of me. At times I am selfish, but I often do what's best for others if I can. I am kind to ladies. But it's more along the lines of if I know them more, I would be more kinder, because more opportunities would manifest themselves. That should change eventually lol. What can I say, I'm a loser. Tony is the only thing that makes it all worth it, aren't you, Peach Head? I cease to see what's so bad about being kind. People are such jerks in society today. Stupid jerks, they should become kinder. :p[/size]

[size=1] I say there's always self-inflicted pleasure. Or you can always experiment with the fellow ladies in the abode. Not much else I can do to help. Sorry. You could try going to a bathel though. That's expensive but worth it from what I hear.[/size]

[size=1] Honestly, I know mostly what this story means, but honestly, then again, maybe I don't lol. I just let it do what it wanted...this is honestly the longest I've written something in a long time. So I'm sure it's not amazing all the way through...I'm definitely sure it transitions roughly in parts. It is 5,000+ words, but that's also a whole lot I'm sure that can be editted, and so on, and so forth. You don't have to do some amazing critique...I'm nore along the lines of wanting to hear what you think this whole thing means. That would be much more interesting than anything else you could say to me anyway. But as always, anything you can say about how it needs help here or there in flow, that would be nice. Try not to be anal to the point where you're anal, though, I mean, it [i]is[/i] just a rough draft.[/size] [b][center]Beyond the Dead [subject to change][/b][/center] She was a most beautiful creature when I first eyed her. She had long black hair, a thin, clear face; petite hands, bony yet well-kept; she had lucent, well-rounded eyes, blue as the ocean. She was a beautiful creature. But only beautiful when I first eyed her. I first eyed her as I sat getting ready for bed. It had been a tiring day, so I was most tired. I stood in my room, the lights turned off, sweet music stuck in my head playing, slowly taking off my clothes. I must have looked like a dark thing in the darkness, just standing there, the black, vague shadows of my shirt as I took it off dancing; the black, vague shadows of my pants as I took them off cadencing about my little room. I am not sure if she was watching me then and there as I undressed. I am not even sure that, if she was watching, that her eyes could see my form clearly-for perhaps she was accustomed to darkness, and had the abilities to see in it. But that is not for my to concern myself with, for if she saw me or not, those events that unfurled would have been the same. My room is a small little, homely place. The walls are bare and do not contain anything on them, for I pay little attention to such superfluous things. I have much better things to do with my time rather than worry about the furnishings and character of my room. For the purpose of the room is not to be ornate and decorative, but it is to be a place that is one's own. Suffice to say, my own picture of a room is just as I've said-a room that is not ornate or decorative, but rather, suited to my own tastes. And I am not a colorful, animately decorative person; I leave things as they are, and create new things which are not so superfluous. Then that was what I was thinking, as I took off my jeans, tossing them aside; now as I stood just in boxers, I looked about my room, thinking how beautiful the simple, unaltered is. Perhaps I was smiling; or maybe, perhaps, I was hiding a smile as I did so. For I feel certain acquaintances with my room. One being the familiar feeling to it; another being just knowing that the day was over, and tomorrow was not yet here; that it was not yet dying as it would start doing at the stroke midnight. Tomorrow never dies is what the say. But indeed tomorrow does die; for as it dies, it is then today. But all in the same sweep, another tomorrow is after that then created today. It is quite a twisted thing, time is. Still standing there thinking, that is what I looked to just then in my room, in the dark, prepared to go to sleep. In the back of my head there was music still humming in me as I eyed over to the clock. I read its face; I read it much like one may look upon one's face who they see often and know well. It is the same look; for when you look at a clock, you look at it and you read it, you see what it has to say. And so it is the same with someone one knows well-looking into their face, you can read it, just like reading a clock, and you can know what they are feeling, especially upon viewing their eyes. Time is a much more sturdy thing though. It eats away all that it tells, except itself. It is knowing of itself, but still does not decay. The clock read to me ten forty-five. And at that time I finally crawled to the reaches of my bed. Strangely, I had made my bed at morning. Most certainly, it was not a common occurrence with me to do it. But early that morning, as I was adorned in my work habiliments of a cordial tie and suit, the feeling had come upon me instantly. Like a heavy-gripping, never-letting grasp. Something had touched me, thrown me to making my bed, and so I had done it. I even whistled as I did it, as if the task was most entertaining, fun, and of good and purposeful use. It was completely the latter. Completely in entirety. The entire prospect of making a bed every day unnerves me. The monotony and organized nature alone is enough to warrant my unwelcome gestures of this practice. Yet I had done it that morning, blissfully, with little thought as to what I was doing. The clock now read eleven eleven as I finally looked it, after seeing that I had made my bed, having gone lost in thought for the elapsed time. An odd, strange number. All those digits aligned in perfect, fluent sameness. It glares at one as if each one is some tally, or perhaps a claw. The entire sight of the sameness of such a thing, and you having glanced at it momentarily is quite the coincidence. I stared at that digital face some time, until it had changed to its next number in its procession. I felt even more afeared and gripped with some superstitous glare at the new set of numbers I read. The clock now read eleven twelve! Eleven twelve, what a strange, eerie string of numbers itself. Like the counting off of something, an eleven, then a twelve. It reminded me much of what I had been thinking of as I had stood there when first throwing off my jeans. The realization that soon it would be tomorrow, which would be then today, making that tomorrow gone, and a new tomorrow conceived; and just as this, the hour after eleven is twelve. Just like the clock's face was now counting down, saying to me as I stared at it on its little nightstand by my bed. I no longer trusted time at that moment. It felt as if it were playing with me, somehow conniving with my sleep-enfeebled mind. I did not know why I was so scared, so superstitiously riled. But late at night, one must admit, small things can lead to bigger things, where in turn those bigger things can lead to colossal, even larger, things. It was much the same for me at the time. And anything could have set off this enfearment. Maybe it could have been some shadow puppeting with my mind, masquerading with me; maybe it could have been some thought of a sickly, swollen apparition; maybe it could have been a noise I heard reverberating from the confines of my upstairs. But it was none other than time at that moment. And it was, quite easily, the most scary of all for reasons I cannot understand myself. I stood there, coiled, unable to move. Then just as had come before, the clock's face moved about its procession, adding one to its minutes. It now read eleven thirteen. I stared at it in dreamy haze, pondering over if it could be yet another conniving, playing thing from the cold calculation of time. At first I came to no end that could tell me it was playing with me again, but then, it donned on me, but slowly. It was on the tip of my tongue at first; I knew what I was trying to see, but I couldn't give it a certain, knowing understanding. Then there it came. By adding the digits of the clock, a one, one, one, three, it added up to six! Six, that most tricky number. This, most obviously, is not what I first saw. At first I thought of the number six six six, those three numbers in rapid succession which are said to be the very numbers of the devil himself. This is the thought which first nestled in my head upon imaging the number six in my head. Those three, smooth, upside-down nines slithering out their tails, with their heads facing downward, and their tails slung in the air as if angered and rancored with an inflection. Or perhaps those three sixes looked much like scorpions, with stingers held heftily in the air, and heads prying on the ground, insectile. My mind was ripe and moving now. The thought of the devil sprang into my head and would no longer leave. Images of large fires, ephemeral screams and wails of tormentation, desecration. Images of wild, twisted, writhing hands bled and bruised from being whipped and slaved. Snarled, caught horns groping out from heads. The click-clack of steel chains verberating coldly. Deep-set, dead insidious eyes molesting about, veering to and fro, viewing everything with stern, mean eyes. An endless abundance of burning, seething slavation. It all was in my mind, and it would not leave. The thoughts meddled with me, finally getting the best of me. Finally breaking from my walls I'd built to contain them. It all seeped out. All crèche, young and ravenous. There was no longer anything to do. I had willed it upon myself. I had let my mind wander into the depths, let it all become paranoid and sneaking. My imagination had gotten the best of me. Why is what is unknown the thing which most scares us, brings us to our knees? Why is it what most fears us? Why is it the thing that in the depths of sleep, and the coming of it, that we think most of? It is those things which most likely we shall never comprehend, or those things which we create from our own imaginations, that most scare us. And often we keep it all in; we are reticent, we do not let it get its long, wry nails on us. But always, sometime, it catches up with us. An inevitability that will not just die and leave us, but still lives in its death. And what is the most unknown thing which we know? The future. The only thing we know that shall happen is death; but still, even that is something we do not fully know. It is not something we understand-it is not something we comprehend. And all these things, and more, catch up to us at the coming and dive into sleep. Always they brood with us, an unkempt company that has its deeper being in our most weakened and fickle states. This is what had happened to me. And it kept me ill and sick company until I no longer could understand where my thoughts were going, where they had been, where they had gone, and why they were thinking what they were. I became lost in the thought processes which I was not even controlling. My imagination was slowly crawling to stop. A stop that just as soon could spring up and be off again. It was time to drift off to sleep before it all crashed down on me again. It was now much later. Sometime during my foray in my imagination I had sat down on my bed, and I now felt its soft, suave sheets. It felt very welcoming, warm, and comfy. I briefly stood up, still in darkness-a darkness I had adjusted to-and I unfurled my sheets, first pulling off my topmost, black cover. Then came the next one. It was also black, but of a lesser thickness. As I did this, my pillows rolled out from the covers where they had been placed. One particular pillow rolled out, going almost off of my bed and to the floor. Taking my hands from my now pulled out, readied sheets, I grasped this pillow from the top, putting my palm there, holding it tight enough to lift it. The pillow was surprisingly warm, and it was not a warm created by the heat of the sheets. It felt much more regulated. Much more lively. Almost as if a head had recently lain on it, sleeping themselves. My imaginations once again reawoken, an instant flash of vivaciousness graced me. Suddenly, I imagined a woman's face. She was staring at me as she lie on the pillow, I seeing her from the side. Her face was in a smile; her hair was most black and long; her eyes were blue as an ocean; her lips shaped in an arc, almost open but not, dark, deep red; her neck standing smally out from her thin, unlined face as it escaped into the inner reaches that were my black covers. Just as soon as it had came, it then disappeared. But it still stayed in me like an imprint, a photographic ellipsis. She was still there in my mind. Still staring at me with that welcoming, yet eerie smile; her eyes were still blue, but not as lusterous; her hair was still black, but not as vivid, but more blurred; her lips were as luscious, but were now smeared, vague, as if lip stick and been smudged there. She was well still there, never to leave until I let her, but gone all the same. I glanced the pillow strangely, feeling its soft blankness, seeing its smooth blackness. It still did feel warm, but I excused the thought. It was just my imagination, yet again, getting the best of me. I climbed into bed, shut my eyes, and was off to the places of sleep, and those beyond. I awoke. Again the woman's face appeared to me, a little lesser imprint than last time. She was still there as I made my mind see the image. I turned to turn off my alarm; it was always what awoke me. I pressed it off without looking, the habitual nature of the task not needing me to look any longer. Yet, the thing still kept blearing. It rang, chimed, bleated, clanged, belled; it would not stop, not for the life of it. Groggily, I turned up and looked at the clock's face. It was empty; there was not a single number nor digit there. I stared in wonder, amazement, and a sickening fear. Still looking at it, I put my hands on it, and turned it to its side. Finding the switch, I pressed it. Still the thing did not stop blearing. Still it would not give me rest. Soon I gave up, and in anger and frustration, I smashed it on the ground of my room in one fell toss. Then I reclined back in my bed, still tired, still wondering what was going on. Just as I lay there, I felt a form move on the left side of me. I was so startled I jumped right out of my bed, still in my boxers, but not in complete darkness, for the sun had come out. In half-light the figure in my bed turned its eyes towards me. It lie in just the same way I had seen it in my head. It was the woman; that one, singular, beautiful woman. She had white teeth I saw as she widened her smile more; her black hair was there, even better than I had seen it in my dreams; her eyes were the bluest blue, even bluer than sadness, even bluer than the ocean; her lips were plump, dark red and lushous, even more than I had remembered them being; her face, altogether, was thin, bony, yet full and unwrinkled all the same. She was quite beautiful, and I stared in awe and wonder long before I snapped out of it. She was exactly as I had imagined-and more-much more. I did not know what to say; the words were all over my mind in a chaotic, inarticulate mess. I just stared at her-and she stared at me. She was the one who spoke up. I did not even hear what she said, it was as if she spoke a different language I had never heard. All I heard was the caliber and inflection of her voice. It was most beautiful, just as she was. It was soft and sweet and lulling, like sweet singing. I was very lost, and as her lips moved, all I could do was stare at them, not hearing what they were saying. Soon I came into the bed with her. It is all a blur from here on out. She said things to me just by her touching that I cannot even being to explain here. We did many things; we layed in each other's arms, we cuddled; we kissed; we tangoed; we loved one another in a love that never could have existed in such a short amount of time. Long it felt I was with her, in her arms, with her. But it soon ended. I awoke again, a second time. This time I lay there, just remembering the dream. My alarm was again blearing, but I could not hear it, it was only a noise in the back of my head. I only thought and thought again and again of what I had dreamed, and could only remember the immense pleasure I had felt; the entire reality of it all, how real it had felt. In still a reminiscing haze, I went to shut off my alarm. This time I was not surprised when it would not shut off. As sure as I felt I had hit the switch, again I knew that it was again doing what it had done before. I sat up, half-hoping I would feel a form move to the left side of me again. Placing my hands on the alarm, nostalgic, tense, wondering, I hit the switch off again, not even reading what was on the alarm's face. It didn't stop making its bleats to no surprise, even though I had hit the switch for sure. It dawned on me I should check the face, and so I did. It was again blank, but I could see something reflecting. I looked. I could see the woman, but her face was stern, and cold, and looked dead. I thought I could see blood on her, but I did not let that hit me. And as suddenly as I saw this image, I saw me, kissing her as I came up. I saw only my naked back, the strangeness of seeing my naked back hitting me in a way I could not understand. I stared long, looking at the reflection in the half-light given by the little window in my room. Things seemed to remain the same, as if they would never change. And so I slowly decided I would turn around, and face what there was to face. Doing this, looking at my naked back, I could see the woman with the black hair having her clothing removed. But my body, the one who was not me but was, was blocking most of it-I only caught small views, mostly containing views of her clothes themselves as they were thrown off. I was entranced yet again with this woman, but it was a much more held-back, strange feeling of attraction. Eventually I could no longer stand watching. I wanted to be in it all. I wanted to feel it. The me was still kissing her, quite passionately, it seemed. I did not know for sure, I refused to look, for I was afraid in some way that I might see something I might not to-for the image of the woman before she had been blocked still stood in my mind. I could still see her sitting upright, that grave look, a red that almost appeared to be blood, but couldn't have been. And through all of this, my alarm still bleared, as if telling me of the insanity of this-that it was probably just a dream. I did not feel it was a dream. It felt real. The curiousity eventually gets the best of us all. And I was so driven mad by what was going on and my unknowing of it, that I pushed heavily aside my naked self that was, it seemed, kissing this fair woman. What I saw I dare not imagine even now, but I shall eschew it on this paper all the same. It was horrific! it was grotesque! it was ugly! of all the things worse in this world, this must be the worst!-it just must! It was me. I looked, I stared at its naked form. I looked at the breasts-and as I looked, they sagged from their voluptuous full. I stared and watched as what I once had seen of this beautiful woman was decaying in front of my eyes. Slowly she decayed, dilapidated, and then stopped. I stared at her long and hard, unbelievingly, unknowingly, unwantingly, disgustingly She now looked like she had long been dead. Long, long dead. And most scary of all-most ugly, most hurting, most ugly, most unneeded-there stood, upon where her head would be, my head. It had been sewn on there, the stitches standing out, and slightly red-the red being the little red I had seen. I did not understand why I was seeing something so horrific. Her body was also beaten and bruised and in inundated condition. Her eyes-no, my eyes-looked like they had had fear in them, but died. I imagined that if her head were where it should be, that her mouth would be wide open in a scream, her lushous lips decayed to a color I cannot even imagine; and her eyes, those eyes that once had been oceans' blue, they would be dull and colored with death. And her hair would be thin and wispy, almost as if it were terse fence wire. The beauty would be gone-the decay taken over, violating, puncturing her beauty. Penetrating it. I turned from her, looking to find the other me. Had he done this? It seemed it could be so. I found his body on the floor, having been knocked so by me as I stared in utter amazement at what had once been the woman. He was dead as well. Not to my surprise, but all the same to my surprise, her head had been placed on his. I looked at my familiar naked form, seeing the same stitch marks, the same decay happen in front of my eyes. He decayed, and stopped suddenly, just as the woman. He also looked like he had been dead for days, long dead. By his hands there was a piece of tattered, torn, mangled and yellowed paper. It was turned upside down. Beside it there was a pen, cracked and worn down just as all I had come to truly see. Apprehension on me, I turned around the piece of paper. On it was drawn an eloquent depiction of two people kissing, holding each other's arms, with a distressed look in their eyes-and what was that look? It was the realization of death coming soon. And who were the people? They were me. Me and her. As I stared at that paper, utter disgust on me, a sadness that I couldn't place, everything began to get fuzzy, and heavy. My entire vision blindsided. I no longer could hold where I was, I felt some type of sleep sedating me. I awoke again, this the third time. I awoke in my office at work, I was lying on the ground. I looked at what I was wearing. It was my work habiliments-my cordial tie and suit. And then, as I came to my feet, I looked to my office desk. There I was. I didn't understand it at first. I didn't grasp it at first. But there I was. I was slumped over in my chair, behind the computer desk. I could hear typing, the clattering and cling of keys. I walked over slow, tired, not wanting to know, but still curious enough to try. As I approached the typing sound grew louder. I could see my head. I could see my hair, brown, tidy, well-combed. I approached. I was now about to see the side of my face. And then I disappeared. And then the me I saw reappeared again. Only this time I was on the ground with that woman. I was kissing her. We were holding hands tightly, the look of death was in our eyes. It was the drawing I had seen. I vaguely comprehended that as I comprehended it, and it passed like the dream it felt like. I could actually hear what we were saying. It was frantic. Scared. Perilous. Between our sniffles I could hear brief amounts of begging. "Please don't kill us"; "Let us live"; "I don't want to die"; "Please don't stop kissing me"; "Please don't let go"; "I don't want to die"; "We're not going to die, we're not going to die, we're not going to die"; "I won't let you go"; "Just hold on tighter"; and it all swirled around endlessly, growing louder, so that I could hear it, then receding. It was just an echo of its form event. It was just replaying in front of my eyes for no reason. I stepped over, closer to my computer, and as I did, I saw what I had saw earlier, on my bed. My head was beheaded and placed on hers; hers was beheaded and placed on mine. And next to us there stood a man. He had a long knife in his hand, a gun in the other, a pleasurable look on his face. Suddenly he was just holding a pen, no longer a knife and a gun. He was drawing. Below his feet there stood a picture he had drawn earlier. It was the one I had seen, all yellowed. The woman and I held hands in it, just like I had seen. It seemed the man was making pictures of us as we died. Recording our deaths in some rememberancing way. He seemed to be enjoying it. I was welled with ineffable sadness. Anyone would. I again walked toward the computer. I could still see its luminescent reflection, that glow that told me the monitor was on, probably the computer itself. It seemed like it was calling to me, wanting me. Beckoning me. A word document was opened on the screen. What I've typed here was typed there, even though I'd never typed it out before. It was all there, every single word, every single thing. A strange feeling appeared in me then. I finally understood. I tried to close the word document then. But it wouldn't close. And then suddenly, the computer restarted. The woman's face appeared largely, and slowly it animated into decay, and became just a skull. Just a skull. The computer remained unchanged. The skull stood there in stark resplendence. I walked away, into the bathroom. The one I'd gone to think things out so many times before. I looked in the mirror. I saw my face at first, then I saw hers. She was smiling for some reason. It was an evil smile, twisted like time. And just as sudden, the mirror cracked to pieces, the shards falling and breaking into smaller pieces. And just as sudden, the wall that held the mirror cracked and broke into smaller pieces. I turned to run as everything broke to pieces. And she was right there, looking at me, laughing, uglier than before. She held out her hand, and I took it. It was cold, I wanted to smash her hand. But I couldn't. Soon the world around us was gone. Soon I was gone. In blackness her and I were together. She was the one that told me to write this. I wrote it down and read it to her. She said she would tell them all about it. Said she had written it all down herself. She said she would find them and tell him about me. She said he deserved to know the truth. That I deserved to die with that truth. I hope she gets to him. Then I can rest in peace. All I can say is that time is a twisted thing. It never ends, and sometimes you get lost in it all. And sometimes you go outside of it, but still see it. And sometimes you don't see a future, but you see a past in dreams. She went away yesterday. She said it had taken a lot out of me to tell her what I had, and that she'd tell them for me, and I'd know when it was time to finally go. I just can't understand what it will feel like to go. But I can't wait, as well as at the same time I can. All I know is that I deserved to die with the truth. And I've gotten as much of it back as I can. But I didn't want to know. I hate her for it as much as I'm grateful. She forced me to remember everything as much as I could, and made me do my best. Somehow I feel worse knowing the truth. Knowing that I actually didn't kill, that I didn't do it. What's done is done, you can't change it, can you? You can only live with its affects. At least she could talk to me; I should be grateful, I should be happy. Without her they probably would never know, or at least some of them would never know. Without her I wouldn't know, I'd still wander around here in the blackness I've known in sadness and guilt for what I've done. I'm still afraid of the unknown. Just not as much since I found out as much of the unknown as I could. It was weird, it all seemed the most real in the beginning, then the rest of it seemed blocked. I hope they understand anyway. I hope they can read into what I said. What if they don't? Then one is never going to rest in peace. If they don't know, and can't see it, how can I see it? What if it was really me who killed her, then me? What if it was? What if she couldn't say what I said right? But I did see that word document, it must be true. All of it was written there. It had to have been. But is it true? Is it? I'll never know. I guess I just have to live with that, and go on with what's left to me.

[size=1] Well Mimmi, the joke isn't even done yet. Earlier I had some inspiration of how to end it...or make it, at least. One of the girls will say, "O Romeo," and it would end up being some kind of sexual innuendo. The entire purpose of the joke was so that Alcoholic Recluse could get enough time to perhaps intoxicate the entire entourage of people. We'll see though. It's not finished...as I said. That ending part isn't even the ending lol. We'll see if I pick it up sometime...but when I do start writing it again, I want to be in a as light-hearted of a mood as I was when I wrote it. We'll see.[/size]

[size=1] This film was [i]amazing[/i]. Anyone that doesn't see it just "because" Tom Cruise is in it should be shot. The guy [i]is[/i] a good actor, no matter what anyone says. You can't deny that fact, at least. Where do I begin? I don't. Because this movie is [i]highly[/i] [i]under[/i]rated. It's definitely the best move [i]I've[/i] seen all year. Even better than Lord of the Rings, for crying out loud. It inspired me to write a piece as well. (You can go [url=http://www.otakuboards.com/showthread.php?s=&threadid=35514]here[/url] to see it.) Just go see this movie, even if you hate Tom Cruise, even if you think Feudal Japan is boring, even if you think there's better movies to see. You will not doubt at-freaking-all that you went to see this movie. I would give some amazing critique of the movie...but it's too amazing for that. Just go see it..that's all I have to say. Please. If not for Tom Cruise, do it for me, or do it for the sake of finally assassinating Barney the Dinosaur. Go see it. Just do it.[/size]

[size=1] I just [i]knew[/i] it was sixthcrusifix. I told Alex this, I told myself this, yeah lol. Sorry I couldn't step into this thread myself last night when Alex told me about it. My computer is afflicted with a virus or something...so thus, it's very unstable etc. Thanks Charles lol. I'll take the initative and just close this thread now...no reason to have it open. Who wants to have discussion with a banned member? I also got a PM from this person. I could tell it was sixy in some form from the quality of the PM, as well as other intuitional nudges.[/size]

[b]even god doesn't throw dice[/b] promiscuously fevered come before us all extraordinarily eager to have it all did you have a fever did you have a fall? poor little baby poor little ball. fix you eager fix you well fix you all over i'm fixing hell. sickened malign dancing on your tongue sputter chasm crack sputter chasm crack sputter sputter wack crack crack sputter crack sickened malign dancing on your tongue kiss me now while we're breathing from lungs. promiscuously fevered come before us all but you're looking more at me after all. you sickened meager little doll want me to undress you dress you like a ball i'll crumple you white paper tear and tatter you till you fall. dead and done tight in your ball i'll throw you away in the basket tear and tatter you till you fall. i see your eyes watery spheres oceananic fears i see your eyes watery spheres oceananic fears murky murky murky the depths you go black soul the depths you go. the depths you go. murky hole. wanderlust brush a wild leave atrophied gold breed murky hole pitfalls falls on me. i saw your eyes i burned them to the floor i saw your eyes i burned them that evens the score i've been emblazoned with gore. bleeding pores. sucking sores. breathing morgues. you've got a fever take some drugs. you've got a fever you're combusting. you're combusting. catalysting. metamorphing. feeding me morphine. i see your eyes in this time titanic flies. pendulum grinds. i see your eyes. the depths you go murky hole. wear more make-up fake the world dilate. i'll irate in full bloom. flower blossoming too soon. buds needles that prune. i'll see the reality gloom. i'll see the reality and gloom. here you come before us all feverently promiscuous seething crawl. don't beg i'm as stupid as them all. don't pray i'm as useless as it all. the cross that i wear as a necklace is just mascara make-up that covers the lies. we've all bled from it we've all sealed its eyes. sealed them with tape and cries. now i'll rape the world in its sides. you sick meager doll why don't you try. wear more make-up fake the world dilate your eyes. now i'll rape the world on its sides. don't beg i'm as stupid as them all. don't pray i'm as useless as them all. i'll see the reality gloom. i'll see the reality gloom. so much time to climb this hate so much time to irate. it's a big mistake never will relate. i'll take my time put it through do it so well. it's a big mistake so much time to climb this hate. expiration date. never will relate. my own clean slate. it vibrates. like your feverent pernicious fate. your nature's weight. we'll lie here in bed we'll lie here in bed. kissing dying we'll shed. molt our skins bruise and grin. i'll take my time put it through do it so well. it's a big mistake never will relate. my own clean slate. never clean shouldered with fate. nature's weight. incest by numbers relation is in our blood. we're human beings we flood. encapture love. be a world child form a circle. be a world child circle. time goes on. my own clean slate. if i matter to you i matter to you it's a big mistake incest by numbers. incest by numbers we flood. encapture love. i fell into the fantasy every once and a while. i'll do it again. the reality will win. a grave in the wind. you're just something to hold it in. reverse the polarity whitebruised thin. i'm a wound a gash. you're just a band-aid. the band-aid covers the bullet hole. it covers the life i breathe. please tell me during this sometime i was alive breathing real feeling live. please tell it was worth it to strive. i'm falling over as i dream. still sitting here festering. the band-aid covers the bullet hole. covers all the wounds i have. all the broken bruises. all the wanted nooses. the band-aid covers the bullet hole. and i'm meager. you're meager. we're eager wanting believers. grievers. fevered. incest by numbers promiscuously diseased give us time give me a kiss touch my wounds in bliss. hurt me more with so much good. and hiss. you're broken i know i'm broken i know we'll fix it i'll fix it you'll fix it we'll fix hell. we'll fix hell. just open up your eyes because even god doesn't throw dice.

they cooked with skillets; flying pans. cooking good food for good people to eat whole. it is just another regular day here in this crazy white world. just another day in the white sphere. and here stands the head of the restaurant. here stands the man we all know. he wears a cook's white little hat, and wears white clothes, and an apron. he's the head of this place. he makes his little peons move. his little cookers twitch and groove. it's another white day in crazy white boy's neighborhood just a regular day. it's all white. outside his store snow is falling over the awning of his store. "crazy white," the awning reads in big, bold, white letters. inside it's warmer than the winter as people sit casually in booths and tables. there's chit-chat all around and customers always to be found. the crazy white boy is in the back feverishly kneading his dough, shaping his pretzels, baking them in ovens large. all about in the back there's a hussle and there's a bussle. and the smell is grand. crazy white boy keeps away at his work crafting his pretzels. he starts to sweat as he goes. wipes off his face for a moment with a towel then he's back to kneading, forming, baking. in the front of the store the doors suddenly slam open with force. in comes a monster that has no remorse. nor has feelings of recourse. the monster's clothed in black standing right out in the whitness of the store crazy white he's like a stark coma as he walks in straight. all the people calmly sitting skatter in fear they hide under tables, some run to the bathroom. some scream, and others just stand. but the man keeps walking. now he's got a gun in his hand. he walks to the front counter of the store demands money, the manager. he threatens to kill. crazy white boy is called from the back as he's doing his work. it's just another white day in the world this sphere. but death is near. crazy white boy refuses to give into this robed figure's demands. and as he fights against the black man more and more the gun is continuously pointed at him. but crazy white boy won't give up he keeps fighting the man. crazy white boy grabs for the gun but is faltered, kicked, and shot right in the head. he falls to the ground, dead. blood falls down his face in rivulets. and he breathes and coughs and is already gone. the man robed in black rushes away grabbing what money he can steal, and even a pretzel buttered and salted. it's a crazy white world as the snow swirls around the robed figure as he drives away. it's a coma sphere as it's gone and grayed. crazy white boy died that day. and like a phoenix from his ashes rose a man. and crazy white boy was buried in a grave. and was adorned with love. and so was crazy white boy killed and so was charles' persona dead. and so then charles became charles and all was and all is said.

[size=1] Charles asked me to review this in a first person poem. So thus I shall.[/size] All about one can see the colors, the pizzazz of painted stills. A painting of a picture, and the poetry of lips, the innocence of youth. All this one can see, a picture that breathes. Death is the murderer, the drawerer of the scene. He paints with black, but covers it all so it can't be seen. He has white hair, and is tall, with large legs. And in beauty he wants lives to claim. A woman eating a truffle, her red lips enwrapped around. That image of vitality that image so profound. A woman with crimson lips, much the color of blood, much too bold to be true lips' color; only cluttered mud. A woman in a satin dress, a dress most tight around her form. She is vitality. Youth. She has it all and its form. She throws it away does not see how beautiful it is. And in the restaurant Death will paint her as he may. And with dyes and colors, and his artistic hand, he shall paint on canvas. He shall show her grand. The raspberry truffle goes into her stomach. Down into her veneer just like she penetrated the raspberry truffle's veneer with her teeth and lips. Deep within her beauty's form. Deep within that outside--the pretty effigy-- there lies the truffle. Poison you be. Beauty is deceptive, hiding in its self. And so Death will be deceptive, hiding in its self. The man with long white hair, with it in a bun, takes her as she is taken by deception most devious; more deceptive even than her own beauty. She awakens to find the man by an easel. And she cannot move nor see. She is decepted, and forever decieved. Those who have beauty never use it to their all. They never see it for what it is--not at all. And it will one day leave them as they age. For beauty is like Death--it comes and goes. And as she stands there dying, and as the murderer preserves her beauty, he draws upon his canvas. He creates life where it would one day die. And preserves everything that needs to have be seen. And she-- she will stay young forever. And she-- she shall never know. She shall never know. --- [size=1]Sorry, it didn't turn into what it should've been, Charles. I'll say a review here now then. It has some areas that need a little work, but the way the story is presented is presented very well. The colors--the imagery--you master your diction, and use the right words to give the right meaning. It has a romantic feeling to it. Like a flower, a rose. It feels like it's very great on its outside, its veneer. But inside, this story is not. This story parallels beauty as well as gives a statement about beauty. The way you say what you say--it is said like beauty. It is said in romantic, descriptive, flowery, poetic way. But in its inside, it is not. It is ugly. It is deep. It is sinister. But it isn't outright shown in this piece--not at all. The piece is much like a picture--on its outside it looks great, but in reality it is only painted with dyes. The piece's entirety just [i]emanates[/i] its moral reasoning, and its message. It works very well; it has many sides to it. And that's what I like to see in writing. The woman we are shown is beautiful. She is Beauty as you tell us. She has luscious lips, she has a tight satin dress. She is beautiful. She is Beauty. She eats a truffle. It is poisoned in some way. The eating of the truffle again says another message that emanates the entirety of this whole piece. The truffle itself looked beautiful--it tasted good--but deep within that truffle there is poison, there is a lack of respect for how beautiful it is. It is poisonous. It has death inside it. And this woman that is Beauty--she eats it, much like what she does with her beauty. She eats it, she looks good and beautiful from the outside, but deep insider herself she doesn't have respect for how beautiful she is in a way which is self-serving. She stumbles around. She finds a man. He is a hired man to kill him. He is Death. He is a murderer. He seeks to kill her to preserve her beauty--to also eschew upon a blank canvas [i]her[/i]--beauty. This message is all carried out well. And again, goes to show again more of beauty. The message that ost don't see it as they have it. And it soon dies. It isn't preserved. But something like death, murder, something like that can preserve it in a way that isn't long-lasting, for the body decays, but ends it before it must be ended all the same, as well as preserving it in a way which is different than just losing it. For the person who has Beauty shall die forever having it. As well as the man seeks to paint a picture of her. To preserve her beauty. He is inspired to do it. So he paints as she dies. And is happy in the realization that her beauty will not wilt like a rose--but it will have forever been there, and will decay away as it goes. If I were to tackle a story like this, I would do it in a much more gruesome fashion. A horrorific fashion. That is just me anyway. I would make the character who kills her kill her himself, not in such an indirect way, as through the truffle. I would make him first rape her, then perhaps paint her, but I wouldn't think that suits the purpose of the character I'd create. Maybe he'd skin her skin, and preserve that, so that he has her entire skin preserved in a way he can wear it. But your character was obviously a rembrant of some sort. He was a classical fiend. With his white hair, his methodical indirect killing of her, it suited his character, and also suited more the story--showing that everything isn't what it is on its outside, just as this man wasn't. That in his inside he was a murderer. This story was well done. Its entirety suits its entirety. It says all it says in all it says. The storie's narration itself has a beautiful encapsulation about its posterior, while in its interior it is demonical and evil in a silent way. The woman who represents beauty is beautiful on her outsides, but in the insides, she's just as hopeless and useless and stupid as anyone else could be. The truffle she eats is beautiful and tasty on its outside, but as it is eaten, and ingested, it poisons her, kills her. The story is a parallel all about its self. It is structured in a stroke of genius and wit that is Charles. I would edit a few parts of it, though. A very minimum few.[/size] [quote]As she glides across the room, [i]with silent movie gods in her eyes[/i]...[/quote] [size=1] Didn't like that line. It set it off...sort of motioned that the writer saw this all as a movie in his mind, and sort of ended up taking away from the story in that it made the reader get out of the story, since he'd ponder over what the writer meant by that line.[/size] [quote]He touches her, one more time, with a glance--he's awestruck by this silent beauty, that has now become, [i]until it's discovered[/i], the most prominent...[/quote] [size=1] You meant, "Until its discovery." Just a simple error. And that is really all...there's a few cases where maybe you could think of some better word choices. It's just the basis of tightening up the narrative to make it flow more fluently--not that it already doesn't. Things like how you said her eyes looked like discs. Just say spheres or something, spheres that looked like planets. Or maybe, if she starts crying, you could say spheres that looked like watery planets. That paints a really nice picture. Well, I'm done with it. Hope I said what I said well, Charles. I really liked it.[/size]

[size=1]This poem is still unfinished. I don't know if I'm ever going to finish it. It's basically going to end up being an epic poem..whether placed with many poems, or one. Whatever the case, my point in making it is to have fun, and to sculpt my own "comic" metropolis, with its own heroes, villians, and so on. I haven't read many comics, but I do feel I could get into them. When I was smaller, younger, I used to have a small collection of comics. I still have them, and have read them a bit here and there. Spider-man has always been one of my favorites. So yeah..I'm wondering if this is even worth putting the time into. Because it's hard to write like this, I'm not usually found writing like this. But it's fun to do it anyway. Heh. We'll see what people say. It's definitely getting stranger the more it goes on, lol. Which is totally me.[/size] [b]Untitled at This Point[/b] The two superheroes cascade round the 'scrapers, and race each other to their headquarters. All about the city mice scurry their way, and young couples walk the night holding hands while traffic scuttles in the broken streets. A special city for a special duo is lit, and the neon signs dance 'cross the sky, signs about anything you can think of to buy. Some of the city is in ruins, broken by criminals, and ransacked by abuse, a broken thing that's crumbling down. Still some of the rest of the city is pristine, and is light as a bulbing creature alive, and it does breathe, and it does feel. Its entire body is the festering mass as they go about their ways, and it's all glazed, and over-drawn and hazed. One man's reading a paper at a newsstand, and he's looking mighty suspicious, and his eyes are dancing this way and that, maybe he's looking at the gals as they walk by, but maybe he's got something more in mind. Outside the newsstand the night is alive, the sucking vampire that sucks blood and dines, and everyone's walking like they're afraid, the sky is starry as they pace their ways. The cars are metal gnashers on wheels, things that are nocturnal emissions, and the stoplight by the newsstand is red. A man too drunk to know his names sings some country song too well-known as he waits at the insidious red light. He sits in his car and just nods his head, and his eyes are spheres like planets, and in them there's nothing and it's dead. Like cold Pluto, or cracked Mars, he isn't a star, and he's far away. And he shuts his heavy eyes, and finds rest in them. The light turns green like a forest, and all the trees are getting plenty of light. Cars all in back just honk in the night, the city speaks to waken the drunken man. Cussing flies round the street like a hot sweat, and the honk of horns mixes in the heat. The man in the newsstand goes out to see the commotion, with his newspaper still in his hand, he eyes round closely, and he looks more suspicious than anyone's ever seen. A smile crosses his face, a torpedoing submarine that's come to get air, and he starts laughing haughty and mean. He rips off his tucked in shirt and cordial tie, and tips off his hat and it falls just like rain. All round his torso there's tin that's stained and he takes a mask from a cleft in the can round his torso. His disguise is complete, and now two modified beer cans mask his eyes, and a Duff insigna of tin is his forehead, and a tin can round his torso bulges with his gut, and Duff paints the expansion of his belly, something like a stretched mansion. His cape is round his neck, and it's silver to blend in, and as he stands in dramatic pose, his hands placed above to the sky, and his knees high in the air, he bellows from his laugh and brings in air, screaming, "The Tin Man is here!" Then, "Or, for those who fear, The Alcoholic Recluse." There's a hussle and a bussle as people stare, and all the gnarling cars open their windows, shouting to and down, and all round, and the noise is like the swishing of water, and it recedes and goes. "Shut up, you jackass," someone screams, "Go back to the funny farm," another says, And still another, and another, and all about he is booed. Still in his pose, Tin Man, or Alcoholic Recluse to those who fear, looks down, and his eyes are quite dear under his aluminum cans. He slowly reverts out of his spectacular pose, going back to limp, and his disguise doesn't seem so grand, and it clatters as he regresses, and he looks to the still shouting people, an eternal boo, and he looks to the ground where the night is eating. An endless abyss wells in his soul for a moment, as it leaves, he looks in disgrace upon the people all snickering, and he makes his voice louder than them all "You dare boo a man!" he cajoles, and flings his fist in the air in rebuttal, and soon he is back to his pose, and cocky as ever, and still the people wail. "You scream like real fools!" he exaclaims, bringing forth gadgetry from another cleft in his tin disguise. He smiles in his mask even though the people yell, and he holds his gadget in his hands. Holding it like an artist, he gives it a look, and knows it well. It is a ray in the shape of a bottle of whiskey, and its murky glass looks hidden in the dark, and upon it is painted, in bold letters that are most fine, INTOXICATION-RAY. He holds it to the sky, screaming an apostrophe, "Oh sky, I sense intoxic toxicity in your way, the most imperative dice has been flung today, these fools laugh like they know what comes, but inhibitions have no lungs; smite thee whom laugh!" And Tin Man points to the still sitting car, and the light is red again like a beacon. And the car is still there. "Did he do that?" someone shouts from their window, another says, "It is impossible," and still others demean Tin Man more, and still others have put their gnarling cars in reverse, driving away from the scene in anger and hate. A bold man steps from his car, and walks to the stalled car, opening the driver door, and looks inside and sniffs the air. An endless permeation of intoxication fills his nose, and he stammers back at the horrid smell. Glancing about him, he sees faces all round, and harks to them, putting his hands in the air. "By God," he shouts, "He's passed out in there!" Voices begin to rise in amazement, and some say their never-ending mercy to Tin Man, but others are not so easily taken, and they still shout, now with their fingers out their windows, a meek bird signaled. The bold man steps back to his car, and is quick as he goes, and Alcoholic Recluse to those who fear eyes him with amuse, and with his ray, he presses down upon its bottom, and points. A large sparkle of fizz escapes, and alcohol hits the air hard. A smell so strong hits as some cover their noses in disgust, while other stand it out as they must. Under his Tin folds, Tin Man laughs an evil laugh, and it has a wavering quality which is demonic, and for effect, Tin Man goes back to his pose, but this time he does a hand stand, and walks on his hands. All during this, Mr. Tin holds the ray in fire, and as he settles in his amazing pose, on his hands, he finally stops shooting the man, and what a sight is seen. The smell of alcohol leaves, but still hangs in the air, and the fizz recedes as it goes from foam to nothing, and the bold man is now upon his knees, chanting slurred about things too vague. People are pointing now all round from outside their windows, and the smile inside Tin Man's tin is quite wide as he is still in his hand stand, and cleverly he does a back flip from his hand stand, going back on his feet. "Haha!" he sings, "Look upon this man?tell me, what do you see?" And the people look, and they ponder, and as sudden as they ponder, the bold man gets up, and stammers round drunkenly. People begin to laugh, and Mr. Bold grabs at the air, chanting something about what is not there. Tin Man walks over to the bold man, and with his tin eyes placed on him he holds him by the shoulders, and looks in the bold man's bloodshot eyes. "Tell me, what is your name," he asks. Drunkely, the bold man fights the grip on his shoulders, and soon breaks free. "Uh dun want no nam," says Mr. Bold, his eyes all scared, "I DUN WAN NO NAM!" he screams, and all about people scream at the loudness of his voice. And yet more now leave, turning round away from the scene. Tin Man, Alcoholic Recluse for those who fear, looks upon this bold man dear, looking him over, he sees his eyes are full of wonder and scare. "Do not worry," says Recluse kind, "There shall be no Nam, not while I have mind." "DAT GOOD! I DUN WAN NO NAM!" he still screams, and people are all jumpy in their windows and some scream again. Aside, Alcholic Recluse converses. "It must be those weak of heart who scream, most likely drama queens, those girls who are so easily afeared. How scared it is to be drunken from beer I think I know. About as scary as nothing else." To the people in their cars, he now speaks, and tells them a joke that has many kinks. "I ask you in your cars to listen to a joke, for it is stuff that is good to smoke. Tell me now?it must be those weak of heart who scream. Most likely those of drama queens. " Some people admit to this entail, but others deny they yelled about that at all, but rather say they yelled at a racoon running round the road. "A racoon? That is something a drunk would say. I must say, I like your style. Now on to the joke. "There are four queens all in a row, and all of them, they read drama. They read Romeo and Juliet to each other. And as they read them all together, one of them plays Romeo. "The one who plays Romeo, her name is Jasmine, and she has black hair. And her voice sounds quiet dear as she reads of her eternal love of Juliet. 'O, wherefore art thou Romeo,' she says in tones most abused, sounding so masculine she feels bruised. 'O, wherefore art thou,' she says again most loud and most masculine.