As of... oh, right... now I will be switching from Blogger to Wordpress, which means...(drum roll)... I've registered my own domain. All my old posts and everyone's old comments have been transfered to http://littlestpenguin.com. I hope you will change your links and join me over there. :)
Peace.
Good Monsters, by Jars of Clay
All the good monsters open their eyes
To see the wasteland where the home fires rise
And the people shouting, "Why, why, why"
Do you know what you are?
Do you know what you are?
All the giants wake from their sleep
And roll outside of safety's keep
And the pain makes them feel so alive
Do you know what you are; do you know what you are?
We are bored of all the things we know
Do you know what you are; do you know what you are?
Not all monsters are bad
But the ones who are good
Never do what they could, never do what they could
All the good monsters rattle their chains
And dance around the open flames
They make a lot of empty noise
While all of the bright eyes turn away
As if there wasn't anything to say
About the justice and the mystery
Do you know what you are?
Do you know what you are?
We are bored of all the things that we know
And we are forms of everything we love, we love..
If good won't show its ugly face,
Evil won't you take your place?
Nothing ever changes, nothing ever changes by itself
We are bored of all the things that we know
Do you know what you are?
Because we are so in love with ourselves
We are forms of all the things we love.
Klara laughed for no reason. Maybe she laughed for no reason and maybe because she'd noticed her husband had a limp. The others thought she was laughing with relief, laughing in the spirit of a swirling day, and it made them all smile benignly. They thought she was laughing in the aftermath of checking on planes that were late and hearing complaints from the caterer and finding the right receptacles for all the goddamn flowers. And finally just unwinding on a walk, they thought. Laughing in ragged relief. They thought they knew the mystery of living in her skin.Don DeLillo, Underworld, p.498
