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It was one of those lazy Sundays spent lolling around the house. Neither of us were doing anything, really. I was messing around on the computer, he was messing around with paints and a canvas.

“Write a LiveJournal biography for me,” I said.

“My name is Rachel,” he said after a beat and without looking up from his palette, “and I like sex and cigarettes.”

I narrowed my eyes at him for only a moment, then released a light laugh. “That works,” I said.

He paused in the act of trailing a thin ribbon of violent green paint across the canvas and looked over his shoulder at me, a look on his face that surely said I was about the be the object of his light-hearted teasing.

“I changed my mind,” he announced.

“Oh?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “It should say ‘My name is Rachel and I like sex, cigarettes and my dog Ziggy Stardust.’”

I laughed loudly at that and glanced at the dog in question that was currently curled up, in a surprisingly small donut for a dog his size, on the foot of the bed.

“Of course,” I said. “That’s perfect.” And after a moment, “endorphins, cancer and pet dander. Oh, woe, is my life.”

"When Zarathustra had spoken these words, he again looked at the people, and was silent. 'There they stand,' said he to his heart; 'there they laugh: they understand me not; I am not the mouth for these ears.

'Must one first batter their ears, that they may learn to hear with their eyes? Must one clatter like kettledrums and penitential preachers? Or do they only believe the stammerer?

'They have something whereof they are proud. What do they call it, that which maketh them proud? Culture, they call it; it distinguisheth them from the goatherds.

'They dislike, therefore, to hear of `contempt` of themselves. So I will appeal to their pride.

'I will speak unto them of the most contemptible thing: that, however, is THE LAST MAN!'

And thus spake Zarathustra unto the people:

It is time for man to fix his goal. It is time for man to plant the germ of his highest hope.

Still is his soil rich enough for it. But that soil will one day be poor and exhausted, and no lofty tree will any longer be able to grow thereon.

Alas! there cometh the time when man will no longer launch the arrow of his longing beyond man--and the string of his bow will have unlearned to whizz!

I tell you: one must still have chaos in one, to give birth to a dancing star. I tell you: ye have still chaos in you.

Alas! There cometh the time when man will no longer give birth to any star. Alas! There cometh the time of the most despicable man, who can no longer despise himself."

Thus Spake Zarathustra, Friedrich Nietzsche

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling)                                                                       i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) ee cummings