U2 playing in the rain? Fucktastic.

I think I paid 200 dollars for general admission.
Lets put this without a tad of exaggeration, I think $500USD would still be a very fair price to pay to see U2 just perform "Where the Streets Have No Name" like they did last night.

I also say this with any humility I have left from the exhilarating experience: fuck hearing them on CD, if you haven't listened to them live - you may never completely guage the true genuis that is U2. I've been to many concerts; I'd doubt any would come a shade close to the surrealistic, orgasmic heights of two hours of magic.

Where the Streets Have no Name (live): Priceless.

Orchids.

PJ - Black : the only song that abets emotion.

There is something oddly riveting about the concept of the color black. On a visual spectrum; our perception dictates that we equate the color to an absence of light, i.e devoid of any tangible color to stimulate our visual capacities.

Rather, its true nature stems from the fact that it absorbs all colors and hence becomes "Black" - a concept. It is only by virtue of acquisition of true loss to "A"; that we can understand the true value of "A".

Side Note 1: I find it almost satirically ironic that a picture in memory of the Pope is next to a FHM magazine filled with pornographic material. Guides on better sex, logetivity, commonalities in masturbation among females etc. Hell that is okay because this is the socialistic movement of Seattle after all isn't it?

Side Note 2: Children are beautiful.

Side Note 3: U2 in 3 days. Update on that experience soon.

Child.

Child.

The mist drew curls around her,
Cloaking her in an opaque silhouette.
The trees bended and twisted,
Dancing to the tunes of foreboding.
Three blind men saw in silence,
Catching the cringing, decadent wind.
Did they not see her white purity?

The silver Icarus reran his ascent,
Permeating the grey to an empty moon.
All that was burnt was remade to silk,
The spark still alive, among the nonchalant.
A dozen deaf sirens wailed in distress,
Calm ripples spread outwards like plague.
Did they not hear her afflicted calls?

The cloth hung with latent futility,
Its quintessence drowned in deep waters.
Her reflection defaced the warmest shrub,
Her hood still perched in forgotten submission.
Four muted children flew the magic carpet,
Interlined-twisted tree branches, screaming.
Did they not speak in prayer for her?

She stood in silent, pleading vacillation,
Her innocent child in her quivering hands.
His arms dangled limply from one side,
His hair vibrantly dancing with the brisk wind.
The naked branches bowed in subtle devotion,
To the winds catching the first few flowers.
Did they not feel the morbidity of its sleep?

In a white cloth which raped the darkness,
Innocence again forged a silent, futile battle.
Day in and day out to asphyxiating apathy,
An approving God observes from His perch.