Movoda Manual - shimizu

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Member Since: 2007-08-20 08:24:28
Active playing time: 598 Days, 9 Hours, 24 Minutes
Member Number: 0000002813
Character Experience: 60,321,598
Character Level: 87
Highest Skill: Cooking Level 107
Nationality: Erfdarian
Guild: Border Patrol
Guild Position: Taco Slanger

Things of Interest :
All About Me:
Cooking Page :
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Graphics&Commissions :

~ Cooking ~ I check my xp here, pay no attention.
RankPlayerLevelExpGained Today (Since Yesterday)
1Freya [^V^]120208,966,188 (+75,680)
2Chey [X]111152,503,304
3pibird [Home]109141,746,693+236,060 (+519,110)
4Shimizu [I10Mafia]107136,141,382
5bigdavedee [MAD]106130,699,340+22,230 (+22,230)

21158 people came to visit Shim.

Helping Lazyscoffs in the greenhouse --^ evidence table --^

My conscience speaks to me in letters...

You should take better care of yourself,

you know I worry for you, Par Avion

snail mail never was your taste, scratching

laboriously under restraint for what ideas

may take wildly unhinged flight at the time:

so vulnerable, yet so aloof you are.

It's an introspective shell you've built,

hoping only for those beautiful people

to see through to your fragile interior;

Alma was right: you never say how much

a friend means, how important they are

to your sense of security in this world.

Blossoms grow and bloom, only to drop

if left unnourished and deprived of light:

that watering-can you hold is unused

most of the time; and you broke, yet

you hid it well, after coming to that point

when nothing holds the same vibrancy.

Taste becomes artificial, other senses

drown in rolling seas of loss and longing;

and in that eternal flight of sparrows

left to their own device, I can only say

you need to write me back : to tell me

everything you need to heal yourself.

[Whatever Became of Me]
by Richard Shelton

because the moon comes
straight up from the mouuntain
like the hidden possibility of madness
escaped for everyone to see
and the wandering stars
who are said to rule our lives
wander on in darkness
I feel a need to lie down among the stones
and caress any of them
who have survived

I always looked for what I wanted
in the wrong places
until the desert
taught me to want what I found
now on summer nights
I sit in the garden
where it is hot and dry
and young stones grow like weeds
when the moon turns
a mad white face upon me
having nothing to offer I hold up
my empty hands
it is so easy to be happy

this morning a woodpecker woke me
practicing on his drum
and all afternoon cicadas rang
like the telephones I haven't answered
I am what has become of me
a man who lives in the desert
where coyotes wail more skillfully
than hired mourners
at the funeral of an Eastern king
where every night the stars
whose light I have not earned
and will never deserve
return as if to keep a promise
and even the rain
when it falls is coming home