In fact, every time I read a poem I've written, I'll either have a good laugh or sometimes I'll cry out loud. It's not a narcissism. I'm often just amazed at how one poetry compresses all my past time into such short lines while it's full of gaps that are just unsatisfying.

I can dance to spleen all night long, I dance with my hair. It's in some ways as important as Bohor. But actually no, I just need a guideline of my own, to bring these music and personal memory together, and even Das Andere, Les Espaces Acoustiques, Gurrelieder, Verklärte Nacht, Schubert String Quartet No.14 D.810, Shingetsu's Return of the Night etc. Personal memories should be vanished in this way, I'm writing myself within a larger book. I should make this history justified, make the poeticising history merged into the source and origin of all my feelings, and the result of that book. When the paint dries, a process of re-colour need to be done immediately. Layers of memories will be like paper wrinkled by ink, no longer distinguishable from the old and the new, the light and heavy.

I've never been one to avoid the long-term effects of something or someone on myself the way people do, as long as I'm consciously doing those things. I'm consciously been affected, been transformed and this is how I force myself to certain states and thoughts, certain moods or feelings. I don't avoid it, due to the fact that most of the time those things are no longer an external to me. I'm willing to grow with it and even treat these as my own. These things should be my sources and seeds, at least they're materials. I don't have anything firm that I have to keep all the time, I just stay firm on the point that I don't have anything firm that I have to keep all the time. There is nothing that I can lose, and when I seem to be a totally different person one day, I'll still be sure that is all I am, and I'll cheering for myself with silence. I need constant change, intense content and refreshing meanings until one day it can somehow become ubiquitous, truly. The feeling of losing oneself on this way, is actually make oneself become incomparable, intangible. That's why in reality I don't intend to find a sense of self-importance, in anyone' place. Or one could say, I don't seem to be interested in people and their lives, their details of everything, which is the most essential idea.
Individuality perpetuates its presence, its aurora, its sound by expression, by writing it down, even by speaking it loudly at some point.
So the last line of this poem, should be: 你如你所是，仿佛今天黎明才出生。You're just the one I knew before, the character of yours that keeps changing does not change. Love retains all sustenance through this kind of refining and purification process.

Test Audio Dueil angoisseus - Peste Noire :

Test Webm

>>95
test mp3

Here's another

海浪旋转着消隐了，它们
－－旋转着退出那让人厌倦
－－的对人的胁迫，你确信
－－绚烂平静的曙光，
－－清洗所有让你阴郁的
－－海带质地的油污，和曾经的剧痛
－－将你载去不可预知的终极
－－道路的末端闪亮且清晰着

他们没有离开，－－－你留恋他们
－－许多破碎的东西躺在那里，
－－这是光永远也透不进来的地方，
－－你看不到他们，在那里只有肤浅的虚无
－－可悲伤为何流溢于他们其中，
－－他们为何确实没有离开？他们只是沉湎死亡，
－－不管怎样，那些人永远将自己浸入其中，
－－可能，你不停在做的是为他们哀悼，
－－－－－－－－－－－他们只是死了，
－－因此他们消失了，仿佛逃离了你，
－－你由于喧闹而备受误解和嘲笑

曙光携带着它亲爱的颠倒者，
－－刺眼的及柔美的，这些
－－－－－－－－－－－是海鸟的荣耀
－－没有一滴海水会打湿它，整齐的羽翼，清白，
－－安魂曲，降落，梦中的遐想，这诗渐渐地像
－－碎贝壳，来自岩石，且被击碎在海滩之前
－－你压碎我，而把我吞噬其中
－－永爱的甜蜜，我如此甘心和不悔

那些诗，－－－－－－－，不过它们
－－一定程度上统领着绝望与被弃者的
－－辛酸的生活，形单影只站在一些
－－山峰前，湿润的沼泽地旁，就是曙光，
－－拽着你前往那个还没形成的明天，
－－一个又一个掀起的苦痛的巨浪，
－－他们也找不到你对此的解释，
－－无非是乱成麻的稿纸皱缩在
－－你被卸下的血肉枷锁之间，
－－你的模样，远离所有体面的形式，
－－他们为你心疼，而你仍无需对这作些反应，
－－你可能会看到一些眼泪
－－用你刀锋般的眼神，竟然能远远地
－－品尝到滴滴眼泪中的可怖的盐分
－－就像听懂并且得到丛林海洋的音乐
－－同样是被胁迫而得的本领

所有的所有，将能用一些尊贵的金色
－－消融和恢复，你的面容，
－－将焕发生机和神采，
－－愤怒与怀疑幻化为，
－－晶莹美妙的奕奕光晕；
－－滩涂前摇曳着的可能会是
－－被你截段的黑发，徐徐，
－－让我们一起永远回到那一天，
－－寻找刻画在终点处的你的形体，
－－我永恒的哀思，我甜美的终极

你的神性将我永远压垮，
－－时间全部就此停下，
－－这个世界不再存在
－－在曙光中我失去你
－－曙光最终会成为
－－我们真的看清彼此面容的夜灯

>>100
The last two stanzas have a particular Novalis-like atmosphere, and it's really not a deliberate imitation of him or any romanticism poets, it's too hard for me to imitate anyone's poems, because honestly, I don't seem to have really studied works of some specific poets, so imitation is out of the question. So the last shinny two were written while listening to Schubert's D759 (Jonathan Nott, TUD1660), and other than that, it's really the final product of an intense, sharp pain, I've been experiencing. I really have to value my life more, and the smoothness of it. It's a common saying, but sometimes i'm too impulsive to give it up, and I hope I never live that life of a typical poor poet again. The results were mediocre, but it seems to have taken a few more layers off me, and I almost literally lost my life, which is so exhausting. The sea almost swallowed me.