We live on a mountain / Right at the top
There’s a beautiful view / From the top of the mountain
Every morning I walk towards the edge / And throw little things off
Like car parts, bottles and cutlery / Or whatever I find lying around
It’s become a habit / A way / To start the day
I go through all this / Before you wake up
So I can feel happier / To be safe up here with you- Hyperballad, Bjork
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I see that I have alluded above to his powers upon the violin. These were very remarkable, but as eccentric as all his other accomplishments. That he could play pieces, and difficult pieces, I knew well, because at my request he has played me some of Mendelssohn’s Lieder, and other favourites. When left to himself, however, he would seldom produce any music or attempt any recognized air. Leaning back in his arm-chair of an evening, he would close his eyes and scrape carelessly at the fiddle which was thrown across his knee. Sometimes, the chords were sonorous and melancholy. Occasionally they were fantastic and cheerful. Clearly they reflected the thoughts which possessed him, but whether the music aided those thoughts, or whether the playing was simply the result of a whim or fancy was more than I could determine. I might have rebelled against these exasperating solos had it not been that he usually terminated them by playing in quick succession a whole series of my favourite airs as a slight compensation for the trial upon my patience.Sir Arthur Conan Doyle - « A Study in Scarlet » (1887).
Your regularly scheduled violin porn.
(via holligenet)
Big client list. Rogue governments. Intelligence communities. Terror cells. They all want me. Suddenly, I’m Mr. Sex.
No argument here…
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