Jul. 15th, 2009

karanguni: (RUFUS looks)
*CRY OF RAGE* It's it's it's one of those months! Where there are WORDS but no WRITING comes out; there are like these IDEAS stuck in my head the way PARSLEY STICKS IN TEETH but no output because they have no SOULS. They are like ZOMBIES. D: FANDOM ZOMBIES. I've got a Batman Beyond fic on the burner and a Gundam Wing fic that won't end, BUT ALL I WANT TO DO IS COME HOME TO FINAL FANTASY VII, where the WILD GEESE RUN FREE and the STREETS ARE DARK, COOL AND CALM.

/totally useless post! *BEAMS*

*sob* Fact of the matter is, is that out of all of the tiny little draft ideas that I have, the ones I love best are still in FFVII, and/or in Nasdack, oh god, I am homesick for a fandom, this is clearly a call for Ben & Jerry's.

[edit] THIS. THIS IS WHAT I FEEL LIKE, THIS SONG: Jim's Big Ego - Stress.


I love to work I love to run I love to waterski snowboard
jetski skydive parasail handglide rollerblade mountainbike
bungee jump well I mean I love to do these things if I had the time
I love to work I love to work I love to work after work
I love to spend a little time with this woman that I'm seein
cause we never get the time to spend together
so we call each other up and we talk about work
but I think id really love is to get up by myself on a tiny little island
in the middle of the ocean with just me a book and a cellular phone
and a personal computer in case something came up
and I'd eat and I'd drink and I'd run and I'd sleep
and do nothing but swim all day
except I don't know how to do laps in the ocean
where are the SHARKS where are the SHARKS!!!


[edit again] Oh, screw it all:

From [community profile] areyougame:

August 12 - Final Fantasy VII: Crisis Core, Tseng/Zack: Longing - Finding you in the land of the lost

August 16 - Final Fantasy VII: Crisis Core, Tseng/Lazard: Clothes fetish – Meat makes, and clothes shapes, but manners makes a man.

 

A universe of unmapped grief and love
And new master light is beyond
The pleiades and plow and southern stars.

O soaring
Icarus of outworld, burn bright
The traceries of known skymarks,
Slide the highway planets behind
Your clear waxed wings.

Go conquer the everywhere left
Beyond your sad confinement
In a predicted bonehouse,
Witch thrown riddle of flesh
And water.

O soar until nothing
remains but great glittering holes
In the black godspun shirt over your head.

- John Fairfax