these r 3 diff songs:
all I want to do is lay in bed
drink cup after cup of coffee
and dream <3
Derek and I, 2007
"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a
thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."
"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.
"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."
"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"
"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."
This fleeting world
is like a star at dawn,
a bubble in a stream,
a flash of lightning
in a summer cloud
a flickering lamp,
a phantom, and a dream . . .
"Like a meteor, like darkness, as a flickering lamp, An illusion, like hoar-frost or a bubble, Like clouds, a flash of lightning, or a dream: So is all conditioned existence to be seen."
Katie can talk in sentences already. She can be a stubborn little thing -- gives
Adison a hard time. She should have been the boy. She sure
loves her books --
when he is at school, she will drag out about 4 or 5
of
them and sit there and
"read" aloud. Jim's feelings were really hurt
because
she still doesn't want
much to do with him. She was better than
last time;
but often when he would talk
to her she
would ignore him and
if he'd try to pick her up she'd run
or
scream.
"I have lost all sense of home, having moved about so much. It means to me now — only that place where the books are kept." -John Steinbeck