2024 IN DA HOUSE!👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽

...🕉️

Yes. Thank you|

2x speed is trippy af

คนมันไม่เก่งจริงมันทำไม่ได้มันก็ไปเอาคนนั้นคนนี้หน้าม้ามาทำท่านก็ไม่พอใจ

เจ้าชายก็คล้ายๆฉันอยู่ข้อหนึ่งคือท่านไม่ชอบยุ่งสุงสิงกับใครมากท่านชอบอยู่ต้องทำอย่างนี้

Going to see em in Palm Springs kinda got anxiety

❤️❤️❤️🙏🌹

How miraculous creatures we are! The things we can achieve! The things we can perceive! Like this music. We firstly found the thirst to express ourselves and then we found a way to create instruments, then followed the talented composition, the expression of the soul in a combination of mind and soul. God created this world in perfection, He created us in perfection. It is us that makes this world a beautiful place or an ugly one. If only we allowed just the beauty to come out, only the beauty, this world would have been an earthly paradise full of love and spirituality, full of magic to live in! The greatest gift that God gave to us all, is the gift to even reach divinity if we choose to walk in spiritual path. Because in His greatness, he respected so much His creation that gave us the right of freedom to choose the life we want. I'm very touched by I can only take a step back to admire God's creation!!! Maria

Unforgiving! Of all primal fears of the sapien, The worst are the ones that ripen with age. The clock dongs shriller each passing day, A reminder to what's left, but few. That which consumes itself, Regardless of consent. Time; An unforgiving ally of death! Unbiased, and hence brutal. An enemy that struck you down with intent, With force bearing hatred, Is far less to be feared, Than an indifferent one. Who, in the battlefield, Spends digging your grave, in front of you, However strong you seemed to stand, For you to inevitable fall in! Dated: 18.4.2023

Hateful loathsome twaddle.

💗💗💗💗💗💗💗🍌💗💗💗💗💗💗🍀🐇💗💗💗💗💗🎸💗💗💗💗💗💗🍌🛬🛬🛬🛬🛬🛬🛬💗💗💗💗💗💗💗🎸💗💗💗💗💗. 😍

Dream 3 is the title of my next chapter. Thanks Max your music is always with me 😊💜

From the desert of south algeria, listening to this song at midnight give me a feeling of childhood nostalgia, I wish those days come back

And now I finally dont care. Dream non

Means everyone here wants to sit in life peacefully

"The universe would die in fire, A blazing inferno and everything we knew burns, Right to the bone. Especially ones we hate, Which certainly mars our own fate, As we revel in that thought!" "Or maybe it dies in ice, Strewn apart in its cold expansion, A brutal death, much unlike being razed in seconds, Left to watch each atom vomit its life force, As our very own comes about". "It's like being stood in a line and shot, One by one, and you stare point blank into the barrel, As you anticipate the slight flick of finger, And that feel, Of the hot swirling metal into the skull. But God we know how playful the shooter can get; The cruel anticipation". "A deep hope that life flashes before pain is felt", said the shaman. "So what is it?", asked the boy, Rather uncomfortably, "Fire or ice?" The shaman amused in his curiosity. For why would it matter how universe dies, If yours is written in stone, dated before even the next comet return? "It wouldn't matter child, Just look around", he said, Pointing at the older people in the gathering, Who were simply staring cold, Like at the messenger declaring war, Mumbling quietly, Just the name of the lord on their lips.

"I love you", said I, But you rolled your eyes. I held you closer, tightly, And you shrugged, Wriggled away from my grip. "Words lose their essence, the more it is repeated", you said. But do you not know? That it is not for you that I say it, But myself. I grieved knowing your eyes don't light up, Like the first time I said those words. But I can't help myself, dear, From saying them over and over. Not so you know it, feel it, But so I am reminded of it. You just overhear me saying it to myself. It is not a fact, but an intent. A promise, an oath, a mantra. For me to remember when it gets bitter. When your round and shapely edges turn sharp, Prick through me even as I hug you. I'd wish to bite my lips, and remember to love you, For a shrub grow thorns, only to protect itself, Not to simply hurt, a call to stay away, And I'd stay away, until it recedes into your skin, And you call me in.

Sad one.

Hush, let me tell you a secret, There's a strange sense of comfort, Call it macarbe, But it's an eccentric kind of joy. Unknown to the masses, And the average man that flees his solitude. But to the ones that brave it head on, Meekly, teary eyed. A comfort in pain, huddled in a cramped corner, Closed in walls, no entry, Absolute desolation, absence of humanity. To let fall the weight of our gait, And the shoulders droop, Taking the least space as possible, So the limbs find each other, Cushioning, feeling like another beings soft embrace, perhaps a mother's. Or so it felt, Atleast when you closed your eyes. It is beautiful, trust me. In retrospect, it strikes you as human! Ask the poor ones that didn't embrace it in time. Denying this call for urgency, Fell deeper into the coma of numbness, Whose heart stopped playing attune to earth's wavering emotions. No tears, no loneliness, No melancholy or poetry could moist their hardened souls. Each day just indifferent phases of light and dark. And in a desperate attempt to heal, to feel human, Resort to some last reservoirs of humanness, Physical pain. To watch it drip, red blood, drop after drop, then a gush. Oh human, so human, Crying, "Oh God i wanna feel again!"

This is not a song. A song is sung......

Mixes perfectly with weightless floating.. What a wonderful thought❣

The crying bench Among the greeneries, Peppered randomly with wild flowers. There was a park, It's air carried the smell of medicinal herbs, And occasionally, promise of a drizzle. Also filled with the consistent cooing of the birds, and bustling cackle of laughter. A picture of profound artistry, As though everything were one cohesive being, Breathing to the tune of nature divine. There was one isolated park bench overlooking it all, One needs just turn around to also watch the giant waterfall. Very few in town knew of it. Some adventurous lovers would trek up here. To talk of their future, musing over the soft giggles of the children, As they planned to make their own, In fervent anticipation. The waterfall hushed their silent secrets, Carried it to the ocean, Like a silent messenger of God! But this bench was infamously called "The crying bench", For between their visits, The bench bore the loners and the heavy hearts. People none had known, or care to. They spring up mysteriously, and swiftly escape, On hearing approaching voices, Like the wild cats. The water carried their secrets too, Though distorted from its sheer darkness, But a messenger nevertheless! The flowers that grew here were crooked in a way, For they largely drank the tears of these men, But somehow retained their beauty and chastity. There's been deep conversations, Painful monolouges and suicidal contemplations, Diplomatic arguments; if their bodies really required, to house their wretched souls that knows no love, And carry around its crushing weight. The park was painted in warmth during sunsets, And as the children leave one by one for the night, An irrestible charm took over. The rusted swings now shone in the moon light in glory, But it only compounded sadness for the sorrowful, For beautiful things are ugly in the light of knowing, You'll never be a part of it. One needs just peer into the gushing water long enough, When it starts enticing you to join over, Along with the secrets it carried. What does it matter, If all the philosophies failed, When it could carry you over to God, Or atleast silence the wretched voice within?

You curse and weep, calling it wretched. A psyche irreversibly scarred and hallowed, You say it would take more than one earth to fill it. And that a mysterious winter marred your sun, With a relentless cawing of ravens. But there's a tiny garden you grow in your backyard, The only color in a terribly lonely world. You say they sustain solely on memories, And broken record players from childhood. Oh, how I pray that garden of yours dries up and burns down tracelessly. With the only solace gone, may you force away those winter clouds, And bathe in the sunshine again. I believe you can! "Never", you cry, for its been winter for so long, You found a place in its eerie melancholy. I wouldn't chase them for you, For you'd only draw them back in. The only thing in my power, is to love you, So deeply that you chase them yourself, Or may be not, but I'd still love you!

Man this sh*t hits hard as fuck

Just wonderful 😍

Uçsuz bucaksız bir yerde tek başına oturmak gibi

Einfach genial!

It's humbling! Haunting, to realise that for life to happen, there has to be disorder. For the earth was once a fiery ball raining rocks, And in that cosmic goop formed our greatest ancestors. Its funny how matter, bound to expand, clings together into clumps. It is 'human', that they desperately seek out each other, Lest they may fall apart in the unforgiving expansion, And live its eternity in solitude. A desperate attempt to create 'disorder'and hence "life","leben"! I am awed, to fathom that the fiery black holes and cold cold Neutron stars are alive, As much as the quarks and Leptons, Romantic Hawking pairs that give birth to each other in fervent passion, and annihilate each other in femto seconds. Vibrating in consciousness, their own. There's passion in the universe, in all its entirety! But alas, the more passionate it lives, the more gruesome its end has to be. None can escape the grim march of relentless time. For every being gifted with life, will have to experience death! The 'eternal' protons will one day decay, picked on piece by piece. And all the powerful stars that lit up the universe, will dim down. And the invincible black holes will fizzle out with a feeble whimper. With fine continuity, order and death, Remnants of a charred and once lively universe. There's just radiation, A bliss! Sat Chit Ananda!

Eu caminhei pelas ruas de Amargosa nesta noite. Não havia ninguém. Apenas observei e ouvi, não havia propósito em pensar. Vi neblina nos postes quando na verdade era fumaça de uma padaria. Senti o cheiro da madeira queimando... Vi uma coruja filhote em cima de uma placa de sinalização na entrada do bosque que se assustou com minha aproximação e saiu voando engraçado, como se não soubesse para onde iria, como se eu a tivesse incomodado. Me enganei com as moitas da praça em recorte de forma humana. Caminhei lento, sem medo, sem pressa. Como num sonho bom.

كل من يتفال امام اناس ولا يحترام او ينتظ يمرا من حواله. هذا لا اخلق ولا تقفه حوان افظ منه لي أنه يعطي فظلاته. .

أفعال الاشيء التي تقزاز القلب متال اذباب لا يقتال ولكن يقزاز القلب. وطلق علايء💥متكبر . تكبرا القمامه وهي تنتضر الحمواله.

⁦(人*´∀｀)｡*ﾟ+⁩

Masterful music that is wonderful.

La BSO perfecta para los poetas...la BSO de abandonos, carencias,lloros...la BSO de mascotas que se fueron...la BSO de todo lo que quedó atrás...la BSO de la noche en una ciudad solitaria...miras a las ventanas de las casas y solo ves sombras en las luces tenues

⁦👋🏻⁩كل شيء يأتي في وقته ⁦⏱️⁩

لمء اطغط علا اشواب . مهوا اسر ورا ذالك. العنسرايه اصبحة لي الاقوا،⁦ᕦ༼✩ل͜✩༽ᕤ⁩ من يملاك انوفاذ. ⁦ᕦ( ⊡ 益 ⊡ )ᕤ⁩⁦ᕙ༼◕ ᴥ ◕༽ᕗ⁩⁦ᕙ( : ˘ ∧ ˘ : )ᕗ⁩⁦ᕙ(⇀‸↼‶)ᕗ⁩

грустненько

I miss you<\3

Questa musica tocca le corde dell'anima!

Monotonic rubbish. Totally. It's so bad, musically, it's almost good. Have a listen to the heliger dankgesang from beethovens late string quartet opus 132.

Thanks

So many sad and lost souls here, but that gives me strength and confidence ... no matter who you are and where you are, you are not alone, it will get better ... someday .... ❤❤❤

Yalnızlık huzurdu aslında hep korktular bazıları için hediyeydi...

💉🐜 🐜🐜🐜🐜🐜

Úristen very big!

sounds like she is saying "How did i get hit? Panther panther PANTHER PANTHER

Depressed?: Yes Ears: Hearing this Tears: Shed Life: Reconsidered Mood: Changed I love this song

Am I a poet? When I discovered how writing made me feel, I wrote! I wrote off vehemently, I wrote off ferociously. So much that I forced myself to feel what my poem demanded. For I had to articulate it. Importantly, sign it, force read it until they called it "deep". I was a poet! When someone reads off of his deepest gut, "Duh! Finish off already, wait till you hear mine!" And when I read, they cheered! Mine was certainly better, Why else would they? A brilliant play of words! Sucks to be the best, For none could inspire enough to muse. And when I had come to die, My grave was not earmarked with a cursive "poet". My "poems" weren't read aloud to children. For I wasn't a poet! The real poets were the ones that read and cheered! Ones that misunderstood and misinterpreted, In their own human ways! For poetry is about connecting, Never an individual establishment! Most profound poets never wrote a prose, Nor an intended rhyme! But allow artwork into their being, And make do its creative magic. For anything that "connects" is poetry, That makes one recognise himself in another! And as I walked into the afterlife, I begged that I read all that the remotest mind had to offer! To be a poet is to be human, any human! "I want to be a poet!"

I am scared! When I look up at my poetry pile, Mostly unfinished ones; Some of hope, Some with font so thick, a broken nib and splattered ink; anguish! Some crumpled in woe, finished later with an upbeat ending that doesn't fit! Some fantasies and alternate realities, On hands I wish I never let go, Words I wish I'd spoken, some not! A lot of them on healing; the slow medicine that time is. I guess it quite is! Now I am years older, Light rays don't fight their way in any longer, Music though my love, is not my heartbeat anymore. I am now what I ferociously wrote to be, atleast close by! But little did I know the price paid are the words themselves. For now I'll never have to write them again, Or be able to! I no longer hold the power to clasp infinity in my right palm. Or look at bittergourd skin and write on my great grandmother. I am terrified that I may never write again! Mortified that even if I did, will I care less to leave it unsigned like I used to? I am scared! -Nachi🐾