Prodigy's Life in Vague, Enigmatic, Slightly Confusing Terms

This diary does not (entirely) reflect my life, but perhaps my sole purpose of living: to have you leave more confused than you came in. Everything within is the truth, if you can manage to decipher it. Viel gluck, meine landeskunde.

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137. Friday, October 2nd.

Words cannot express how much I love Bright Eyes. Their lyrics are incredible and relatable and generally genius and their music is just... wow. I recommend them to anyone and everyone, regardless of your traditional music tastes (they're indie/acousticy). 

 

"Will my number come up eventually? Like Love is some kind of lottery,
where you can scratch and see what is underneath. It's "Sorry",
just one cherry, "Play Again." Get lucky.
So I have been hanging out down by the train's depot. No, I don't ride.
I just sit and watch the people there. And they remind me of wind up cars in motion.
The way they spin and turn and jockey for positions.
And I want to scream out that it all is nonsense.
All your lives one track, can't you see it's pointless?
But then, my knees give under me. My head feels weak and
suddenly it is clear to see that it is not them but me, who has lost my self-identity.
As I hide behind these books I read, while scribbling my poetry,
like art could save a wretch like me, with some ideal ideology that no one can hope to achieve."

-Bright Eyes, "Waste of Paint" 

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