00:26 - ss.lv
18:38 - tangents
Ticami, neticami, rokas, kājas,
elpa, sviedri, maize, maika, paika,
laikam laika gaita,
staigā no Brīvības ielas līdz Tvaika,
tu pagriez otru un pietrūkst vēl trešā vaiga,
maiga pieskāriena, viena pietiekama smaida,
lai kāds tevi gaida, kad iznāksi ārā,
atgriezīsies, mākoņi drīz ies pāri kā glāsti,
smagi kā rūpnīcas elsas,
balti kā stikla vate,
tāli kā vientulība,
loga rāmis izgaismo tumšā auguma seju.
gaist pieticība, sirgst mati ar celšanos gaisā,
Es eju! Es eju! Tu celies - uz leju, uz leju,
uz bezsvara stāvokļa bezizeju,
tukšuma siltais, aukstais miers,
tumsas ciešais, tukšais klēpis,
vienaldzības palagi, bezpalīdzības segas,
matraču sienas, restotas ielas aiz restota loga
zobu griešanas čīkstošā murgu viela
aiznes - tik viegla tu izšķīsti sevī
un aizplūsti projām no centra
uz kosmosa audio plates.
19:18 - nu, glīti, nu...
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action…