The music of Richard Halley is out of key with our times. It has a tone of ecstasy. Who cares for ecstasy nowadays?
-Critic

[Atlas Shrugged]

My eternity

Day after day may come and go;
season after season may pass.
The memory may fade, as I grow old,
of that sweet summer's day in your arms.

The moon may climb and fall again;
flowers may blossom, then die.
Distance may take away a friend
who was once the apple of my eye.

Buildings may crumble, that once stood tall;
cities and peoples may cease to be.
This land, this earth, this world may fall
and succumb to the Mayan prophesy.

But even to the end as the song dies out,
one thing, for sure, will stay with me;
always in reach when I call around:
my north star, my soul, my eternity.

You.

Hope immortal

I lay my head down, looking up into the endless;

oblivious to reality.

And I watched in awe as they soared across

like jewels; rushing by,

and just for a moment, turning night into day,

turning dark into light;

like the fire in my soul, just for that moment,

burning bright.

So I closed my eyes, wished with all my heart

for my deepest desire;

For I could see the light, and I knew once more,

hope still lives.

There are many things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might pick them up.

[Picture of Dorian Gray]

Photo credits: Ankit Purwar :)

A pure gaze, an honest mien;
the whitest heart, uncreased by sin.
But peep into my troubled soul,
behold a world of dark within.

She let the tears fall, rolling out of her eyes and down her cheeks, each drop taking away with it a little bit of her misery. But as they reached her lips, she gently gathered them on her tongue again, taking it all right back.For deep within that very misery, wrapped up in that very sorrow, lay her most poignant memories. And no matter how much they pained, it was those very memories that defined her, made her who she was now; and as long as she had her identity, she had hope.

Ah! The smell of the untouched, unopened pages: the aroma of unexperienced joy.
The crackle of the crisp, fresh paper: the promise of a new world; so we may escape and be lost in the wonders of a different universe.
And basking in this respite from the anarchy of our reality, I think; somewhere out there, in trembling hands, must lie the book of our existence, ready to save them from the anarchy of theirs.

'Mahatma Gandhi was assassinated in New Delhi at twenty minutes past five this afternoon. His assassin was a Hindu.'
-Radio announcement after Gandhiji's death.

[Freedon at Midnight]