TAUDA ACHATE.
Saturday 22 November 2014
MY FAIREST...
O fairest of ladies
Most beautiful of maidens
Your smile so smooth and mild
Can tame even the fiercest wild.
O fair beauty of the land I see
A horizon off the hills of glee
Your skin so smooth and silky
Evokes of itself a feel so milky.
O fairy princess of pure delight
Waxing stronger in feminine might
Your territory is an Utopia of light
An invasion is to observe what glows therein so bright
O fairer than the fairest
Illuminated pride of the African forest
You are to me the dearest
Worthy of many a forest's conquest
Ara 'deinde
September 2014.
Most beautiful of maidens
Your smile so smooth and mild
Can tame even the fiercest wild.
O fair beauty of the land I see
A horizon off the hills of glee
Your skin so smooth and silky
Evokes of itself a feel so milky.
O fairy princess of pure delight
Waxing stronger in feminine might
Your territory is an Utopia of light
An invasion is to observe what glows therein so bright
O fairer than the fairest
Illuminated pride of the African forest
You are to me the dearest
Worthy of many a forest's conquest
Ara 'deinde
September 2014.
GOOD NIGHT, GOOD MORNING.
GOOD NIGHT (for Amaogu Charity)
Close your eyes, let yourself dream
Blend with imagination like air and steam
View for yourself illumination's beam
Play beneath your shut eyes like a film
The tresses of delight doth our souls find
As we dwell in the comfort zones of our mind
These nightly visions do deny the title 'blind'
And I hope you find you your dream, one of a kind.
GOOD MORNING (for me)
Gone are night crawlers of old
So is twillight's bold spray of gold
Sky's motifs of silhouettic moulds
Dote a day of a thousand folds
The quotidian routine starts on my bed
Thoughts to fend fill my head
I lift an arm, it weighs like lead
But work is the means to a desired end.
Ara 'deinde
November 2014
Close your eyes, let yourself dream
Blend with imagination like air and steam
View for yourself illumination's beam
Play beneath your shut eyes like a film
The tresses of delight doth our souls find
As we dwell in the comfort zones of our mind
These nightly visions do deny the title 'blind'
And I hope you find you your dream, one of a kind.
GOOD MORNING (for me)
Gone are night crawlers of old
So is twillight's bold spray of gold
Sky's motifs of silhouettic moulds
Dote a day of a thousand folds
The quotidian routine starts on my bed
Thoughts to fend fill my head
I lift an arm, it weighs like lead
But work is the means to a desired end.
Ara 'deinde
November 2014
Thursday 13 November 2014
No Freedom Without Love (1)
August 21 at 11:23am ·
We locked ten fingers as we sat on the dried haystack in my uncle's barn. Hers was a hand that exuded opulence, which seemed to play with death and dirt in my weathered palm. Just as much as our fingers figured out how distant our worlds were, our hearts begged for a forlorn fairy-tale to be told of us to generations unborn, one of love. Either of us couldn't fathom life without the other....
I had no money, whereas she was the daughter of a moneybag. I had lots of love gained enough to have spare to share; she had only my affection, as she found out her wealth couldn't buy her love at home. Unfortunately, there was something both of us couldn't get, at least not easily, and that was freedom. Even if I eloped with her, I would have to bear the guilt of "stealing" her from her family all my life, and she would unavoidably bear it as well. My poor uncle also wanted her out of my life because he abhorred wealthy people. According to him, they were responsible for his penury (his harrowing experience with rich creditors must have influenced his line of thought).
Either ways, what tried to melt my world into Aminat's in perfect tandem was love. Our problem was that we lacked our freedom, and it had to be gotten with love. I sat with her on the patch of dried grasses as I kept my gaze to the sky in personal reflection. Uncle Bada had travelled, so I had called Aminat with the phone she got for me couple of months back to assure her the coast was clear for her to come over to see me at my uncle's.
There's no love without freedom, neither is there freedom without love. I hope both families will understand this and give the two of us a chance of life. I really cherish Aminat, but unfortunately, men don't cherish rudimentary values like love and freedom. Not anymore.
Ara 'deinde
We locked ten fingers as we sat on the dried haystack in my uncle's barn. Hers was a hand that exuded opulence, which seemed to play with death and dirt in my weathered palm. Just as much as our fingers figured out how distant our worlds were, our hearts begged for a forlorn fairy-tale to be told of us to generations unborn, one of love. Either of us couldn't fathom life without the other....
I had no money, whereas she was the daughter of a moneybag. I had lots of love gained enough to have spare to share; she had only my affection, as she found out her wealth couldn't buy her love at home. Unfortunately, there was something both of us couldn't get, at least not easily, and that was freedom. Even if I eloped with her, I would have to bear the guilt of "stealing" her from her family all my life, and she would unavoidably bear it as well. My poor uncle also wanted her out of my life because he abhorred wealthy people. According to him, they were responsible for his penury (his harrowing experience with rich creditors must have influenced his line of thought).
Either ways, what tried to melt my world into Aminat's in perfect tandem was love. Our problem was that we lacked our freedom, and it had to be gotten with love. I sat with her on the patch of dried grasses as I kept my gaze to the sky in personal reflection. Uncle Bada had travelled, so I had called Aminat with the phone she got for me couple of months back to assure her the coast was clear for her to come over to see me at my uncle's.
There's no love without freedom, neither is there freedom without love. I hope both families will understand this and give the two of us a chance of life. I really cherish Aminat, but unfortunately, men don't cherish rudimentary values like love and freedom. Not anymore.
Ara 'deinde
Is there anybody out there?
October 5 at 11:14pm ·
Sometimes I sit in a chair, ravaging through the thoughts of how people live a rubbished, narrowly stereotyped life. It really tricks me out how people do the wrong things so easily and so readily. There is such plethora of ludicrous and incongruous thoughts looming and fighting hard in the parochial mindsets of various Nigerians, Africans at large.
It is rather sardonic and extremely lugubrious that most Nigerians lack an iota of self will. Most of the things we find ourselves doing are functions of a stereotyped model of living, inspired by an irrational bunch of macerating government officials. Yes, the government kills so many things in the lives of the ordinary Nigerian. Creativity is at its lowest ebb, and it keeps being murdered daily, and so effortlessly, by a contrived effort of a system worth throwing into the bush, and a burdened mind of the potential creative thinker.
The annoying aspect about this folly is that everyone in this country is very much aware about the stifling situation we have been born into, yet, few people are doing anything to snatch themselves away from the yokes that threaten their freedom. The youth of today is a miniature model of the proverbial eaglet, born and lost in transit into a company of chicks, growing up with them. Of course, the eaglet won’t be able to fly when it grows older. Show me your friends, they say, and I will tell you who you are.
The Nigerian youth is not ready to take a flight. He prefers to stay as an eaglet among chicks, not knowing that when the chicks turn chickens, it won’t turn to an eagle, simply because it has lost direction of a path to a rewarding future. He basks in the euphoria of today’s petty supplies, neglecting a very useful pedagogy that would have shot up his insight and outward vision. He lacks the initiative and creativity that characterizes other youths in other climes. He is not ready for change, still treading in the fallen paths of his fathers. An erroneous mindset is his delight, and he takes core decisions based on sheer and extraneous fallacies.
It, however, should be noted that it is not the fault of the Nigerian youth the pool of problems he has found himself in. it is rather, the fault of a corruptible, disengaged, futile national system into which he is born, with little or no supplements for survival, just like the aforementioned eaglet. The Nigerian system is one in which personnel reigns over personality and prestige, and positions are outsourced only to those who have resources to afford it- and who are those people? The government officials and their fellow come-chop aides of course!
Nigeria is a country that has settled for diminutive youth development, belligerent and brazen-headed leaders, comatose infrastructure, corruptible and corrupted judicial system, malnutrition-infested families- more than half of Nigerians are underfed and most go to bed hungry- with skyrocketing prices of food and fuel, ailing health and power sectors, over-funded salaries of those in government posts… the list is endless. Even a six-year old, if conscious enough about his world, will know that Nigeria is not in the best of positions to offer anything meaningful to his life when he gets older; but you can imagine how much a make-believe fiction has been so embedded in these little minds such that when asked about their future ambition, their regular reply usually is: ‘’I want to become a doctor’’, or ‘’I like to become engineer’’ or even ‘’I will be a judge and businessman’’. If a parent hears his child say he wants to become a footballer for instance, they become hydra-headed, compounding thoughts in their minds. They forget so easily that there is pride in any and every profession, and every child is special when in his own element.
All is not lost, however. Let’s assume that the older generation (40 and above) is dead and gone. What can our own generation do now? We, as vibrant youths, have to put one thing to heart: the future started yesterday. We are already late. We have to give up evil ideas and idiosyncrasies and take up a fort for the future, which like I said, has started already. This tells us something important: there’s so much we need to do, and ought to have started long ago, but life is not lost, hope is not lost too. Time alone has been a bit lost.
The main thing is that we should think of what we can do for ourselves and the good of our world, not what the world is ready to do for us. There is a wide world with wide arms, waiting to receive our accomplishments and our contributions, and in addition to that, waiting to shower us with accolades when necessary. That’s right. We can live a life that can be eulogized. The two major steps to follow are diligence in duties and following of our passion.
We all have one talent or the other. We can all work assiduously, hand in hand, for the edification of our lives and our society. The harvest, they say, is plentiful, but the labourers in this part of the world are extremely few. My friends, it is time to put our sickle to work.
Change is inevitable. Let us start and learn to make a change. Is there anybody out there to heed my clarion call? I hope so.
Sometimes I sit in a chair, ravaging through the thoughts of how people live a rubbished, narrowly stereotyped life. It really tricks me out how people do the wrong things so easily and so readily. There is such plethora of ludicrous and incongruous thoughts looming and fighting hard in the parochial mindsets of various Nigerians, Africans at large.
It is rather sardonic and extremely lugubrious that most Nigerians lack an iota of self will. Most of the things we find ourselves doing are functions of a stereotyped model of living, inspired by an irrational bunch of macerating government officials. Yes, the government kills so many things in the lives of the ordinary Nigerian. Creativity is at its lowest ebb, and it keeps being murdered daily, and so effortlessly, by a contrived effort of a system worth throwing into the bush, and a burdened mind of the potential creative thinker.
The annoying aspect about this folly is that everyone in this country is very much aware about the stifling situation we have been born into, yet, few people are doing anything to snatch themselves away from the yokes that threaten their freedom. The youth of today is a miniature model of the proverbial eaglet, born and lost in transit into a company of chicks, growing up with them. Of course, the eaglet won’t be able to fly when it grows older. Show me your friends, they say, and I will tell you who you are.
The Nigerian youth is not ready to take a flight. He prefers to stay as an eaglet among chicks, not knowing that when the chicks turn chickens, it won’t turn to an eagle, simply because it has lost direction of a path to a rewarding future. He basks in the euphoria of today’s petty supplies, neglecting a very useful pedagogy that would have shot up his insight and outward vision. He lacks the initiative and creativity that characterizes other youths in other climes. He is not ready for change, still treading in the fallen paths of his fathers. An erroneous mindset is his delight, and he takes core decisions based on sheer and extraneous fallacies.
It, however, should be noted that it is not the fault of the Nigerian youth the pool of problems he has found himself in. it is rather, the fault of a corruptible, disengaged, futile national system into which he is born, with little or no supplements for survival, just like the aforementioned eaglet. The Nigerian system is one in which personnel reigns over personality and prestige, and positions are outsourced only to those who have resources to afford it- and who are those people? The government officials and their fellow come-chop aides of course!
Nigeria is a country that has settled for diminutive youth development, belligerent and brazen-headed leaders, comatose infrastructure, corruptible and corrupted judicial system, malnutrition-infested families- more than half of Nigerians are underfed and most go to bed hungry- with skyrocketing prices of food and fuel, ailing health and power sectors, over-funded salaries of those in government posts… the list is endless. Even a six-year old, if conscious enough about his world, will know that Nigeria is not in the best of positions to offer anything meaningful to his life when he gets older; but you can imagine how much a make-believe fiction has been so embedded in these little minds such that when asked about their future ambition, their regular reply usually is: ‘’I want to become a doctor’’, or ‘’I like to become engineer’’ or even ‘’I will be a judge and businessman’’. If a parent hears his child say he wants to become a footballer for instance, they become hydra-headed, compounding thoughts in their minds. They forget so easily that there is pride in any and every profession, and every child is special when in his own element.
All is not lost, however. Let’s assume that the older generation (40 and above) is dead and gone. What can our own generation do now? We, as vibrant youths, have to put one thing to heart: the future started yesterday. We are already late. We have to give up evil ideas and idiosyncrasies and take up a fort for the future, which like I said, has started already. This tells us something important: there’s so much we need to do, and ought to have started long ago, but life is not lost, hope is not lost too. Time alone has been a bit lost.
The main thing is that we should think of what we can do for ourselves and the good of our world, not what the world is ready to do for us. There is a wide world with wide arms, waiting to receive our accomplishments and our contributions, and in addition to that, waiting to shower us with accolades when necessary. That’s right. We can live a life that can be eulogized. The two major steps to follow are diligence in duties and following of our passion.
We all have one talent or the other. We can all work assiduously, hand in hand, for the edification of our lives and our society. The harvest, they say, is plentiful, but the labourers in this part of the world are extremely few. My friends, it is time to put our sickle to work.
Change is inevitable. Let us start and learn to make a change. Is there anybody out there to heed my clarion call? I hope so.
Saturday 1 November 2014
Insomnia in dreamland
September 25 at 4:12pm ·
I paced the dark alley amidst traumatized thoughts. As down as I was with my dark drained mind, the last thing I wanted was to get caught unawares in this eerie and lonesome setting with totally limited audible sounds. Not even chirping crickets or croaking frogs could be heard. It was hell too scary, and it was funny how much I could loathe the lake. I thought I wanted it as a new and lasting home earlier. Death really wasn't easy, but even more difficult were the cold thoughts of suicide. I raised my wrist to a focal distance. 10:17pm.
The freeway conveyed night crawlers with relative ease and speed of flash. The resulting reverberations rolled past my ears, singing emollient tunes I abhorred. Pedestrians were few and wide apart. Just few inanimate things livened the atmosphere: neon signs, street lights, hooting cars and cabs, and the gentle cityscape breeze, though temperature neared zero. I was famished to the marrow (a suicidee should eat, shouldn't he? The strength suicide requires is enormous.) so I entered a small cafe. The neon sign read "B'Ben's"
I hardened into a rigid mass on the frail sit. Heads were few, three: the café owner, his assistant and a lady seated few tables away, dinner before her. It was unscathed but her life wasn't. Maybe just like mine. Who knows...
My eyes were too clear for comfort. It felt like I would keep a vigil tonight. Oh how I longed for the bottom of the lake to seize my being in eternal sobriety. I wouldn't have to think of all the troubles anymore. The death pills at the doctor's I saw on my way would have been a pretty alternative, but I couldn't fathom that, even if it had to be euthanasia. The death would have been too painful, but wait. Who cared anyway? Did the pain of total rejection and frustration not eclipse the one I would ever feel from choking like a beheaded cock after popping those pills? It would have been worth the try...
The café owner crashed his rant into my ruminations. "Ay', young fella, can't you see or hear that I've called you severally?" I stared at him wild eyed and managed a faint apology. He appeared brazen and unruffled. A bit garrulous too, although in a friendly way.
"What do we serve you? It's late, you know. I see you are not only famished, you've got troubles too. Don't give those worms in your belly a field day, dear friend." I smiled wryly at his familiarization techniques.
"What'ya got? I quizzed in a quip tone. He ogled at me above the polished rim of his pair of glasses. "Check the table top. There's a menu."
I spread the menu card across my face like a mag as a visual veil from the diner's view. I wanted to cleave back to my thoughts. My mind was what I felt the only safe haven in the world. Few moments later, his sharp voice pierced again. "Not made a choice yet?"
"No"
"Lemme help ya. I'll fix you a nice dinner, then we can talk."
I guessed he smelt my troubles. "About what, sir?"
"You."
"What. What about me?"
"I'm coming, son."
Soon, the Jap diner was back with a tray which held scrambled eggs and a loaf of wheat bread hostage. There was a tall pack of juice and a tumbler accompanying the arrangement. He also had an Anglophile assistant beside him who struggled to see to it that I have an English dinner setting. He probably was a new immigrant from Africa.
"Good evening sire." He managed a forced accent and a smile. My returned smile smartly veiled my frigidity. My appetite skyrocketed. For a moment, I stored my worries in a temporal virtual sac as I devoured the meal. Everything was chic and gourmet style.
The diner smiled as he watched me down another glass of water hastily. What for? Only the lord knew. I felt sarcasm in the air overriding any bit of warmth he might be creating.
"My name is Ben. They call me BB for Boss Ben in the hood. I run here. Started it few months after leaving Japan four years ago. What's your name?"
I gave him a thinned look, but he didn't budge. Would he squeeze me for my life's hazy details? I battled reticence within.
"Mark." I mustered after a hard while. I wanted out now, but he obviously wasn't done. His next question caught me off guard. ''Wife and kids? Mind telling me about them if you've got any?"
There was a spark in my brain. Thoughts gushed back, full paced. My wife and daughter were with their maker now, as a truck had smashed into their car earlier in the month. The morgue had called my hypertensive mother-in-law about it. I don't think the idiots figured how ominous the effect of their news would be. She died at the hospital after being rushed there in a comatose state.
Here was an Asian diner with seven 'o clock eyes peering at me behind trifocals (Lord, save me from sarcasm) bringing up the pain in a pack. Should I take the pack from him, my hands might get scarred. I didn't feel like trusting him. I felt nothing could stifle even an iota of trust for this stranger out of me, yet I suprised myself when I spoke. I relayed all my troubles to Him, void of abridgment of any sort. All he did while I spoke was listen. I told him of my crashed stock values, my confiscated crib and company, my aching tooth, my bad tempered friends, all of it. Including the most trivial problems.
How I managed to say all I did surprised me, but not as much as my listener's reaction. His mien erased my previous judgment of Him. His presence now seemed to radiate peace in the air, and his look complimented my new opinion of him. He simply said in a steady voice, "it's been three hours since you've been talking. I'll go fix you a cup of coffee, but before I do, let me tell you this. Jesus loves you. He'll take away your pain if you let Him." With that, he breezed away.
Peace flooded me. I still had one last resort to life. I then remembered an adage I once heard: "Failure is not falling, failure is failing to fall. Until you fall, you can't rise." Ben came back, a cup in his hands. He placed it on the table before me and said "And one more thing, son. Don't forget to share God's love. I ran away from Japan because of desolation, but I found a nun here in Illinois who shared the word." He left again.
As he went back to his counter, he paused at the table the other customer sat at. Her dinner must have been cooler than a dog's nose by then. I saw him give her a knowing stare, then he looked back at me from his distance. Tears were in the lady's eyes. The diner looked back at her momentarily and then trudged on to his counter. I figured what that meant easily. She needed the same kind of comfort I just got.
I worked my slumpy mass the nine yards to her table. As I sat, she raised her head for the first time. Her teary gaze burned hard into mine in expectation. "What's your name?" I asked.
"Your name is Ara. Idiot!" It was Dan, my roomie. "This is after eleven. How many times have I've tried to wake you to no avail! You would have slept forever if I let you."
Ara 'deinde
I paced the dark alley amidst traumatized thoughts. As down as I was with my dark drained mind, the last thing I wanted was to get caught unawares in this eerie and lonesome setting with totally limited audible sounds. Not even chirping crickets or croaking frogs could be heard. It was hell too scary, and it was funny how much I could loathe the lake. I thought I wanted it as a new and lasting home earlier. Death really wasn't easy, but even more difficult were the cold thoughts of suicide. I raised my wrist to a focal distance. 10:17pm.
The freeway conveyed night crawlers with relative ease and speed of flash. The resulting reverberations rolled past my ears, singing emollient tunes I abhorred. Pedestrians were few and wide apart. Just few inanimate things livened the atmosphere: neon signs, street lights, hooting cars and cabs, and the gentle cityscape breeze, though temperature neared zero. I was famished to the marrow (a suicidee should eat, shouldn't he? The strength suicide requires is enormous.) so I entered a small cafe. The neon sign read "B'Ben's"
I hardened into a rigid mass on the frail sit. Heads were few, three: the café owner, his assistant and a lady seated few tables away, dinner before her. It was unscathed but her life wasn't. Maybe just like mine. Who knows...
My eyes were too clear for comfort. It felt like I would keep a vigil tonight. Oh how I longed for the bottom of the lake to seize my being in eternal sobriety. I wouldn't have to think of all the troubles anymore. The death pills at the doctor's I saw on my way would have been a pretty alternative, but I couldn't fathom that, even if it had to be euthanasia. The death would have been too painful, but wait. Who cared anyway? Did the pain of total rejection and frustration not eclipse the one I would ever feel from choking like a beheaded cock after popping those pills? It would have been worth the try...
The café owner crashed his rant into my ruminations. "Ay', young fella, can't you see or hear that I've called you severally?" I stared at him wild eyed and managed a faint apology. He appeared brazen and unruffled. A bit garrulous too, although in a friendly way.
"What do we serve you? It's late, you know. I see you are not only famished, you've got troubles too. Don't give those worms in your belly a field day, dear friend." I smiled wryly at his familiarization techniques.
"What'ya got? I quizzed in a quip tone. He ogled at me above the polished rim of his pair of glasses. "Check the table top. There's a menu."
I spread the menu card across my face like a mag as a visual veil from the diner's view. I wanted to cleave back to my thoughts. My mind was what I felt the only safe haven in the world. Few moments later, his sharp voice pierced again. "Not made a choice yet?"
"No"
"Lemme help ya. I'll fix you a nice dinner, then we can talk."
I guessed he smelt my troubles. "About what, sir?"
"You."
"What. What about me?"
"I'm coming, son."
Soon, the Jap diner was back with a tray which held scrambled eggs and a loaf of wheat bread hostage. There was a tall pack of juice and a tumbler accompanying the arrangement. He also had an Anglophile assistant beside him who struggled to see to it that I have an English dinner setting. He probably was a new immigrant from Africa.
"Good evening sire." He managed a forced accent and a smile. My returned smile smartly veiled my frigidity. My appetite skyrocketed. For a moment, I stored my worries in a temporal virtual sac as I devoured the meal. Everything was chic and gourmet style.
The diner smiled as he watched me down another glass of water hastily. What for? Only the lord knew. I felt sarcasm in the air overriding any bit of warmth he might be creating.
"My name is Ben. They call me BB for Boss Ben in the hood. I run here. Started it few months after leaving Japan four years ago. What's your name?"
I gave him a thinned look, but he didn't budge. Would he squeeze me for my life's hazy details? I battled reticence within.
"Mark." I mustered after a hard while. I wanted out now, but he obviously wasn't done. His next question caught me off guard. ''Wife and kids? Mind telling me about them if you've got any?"
There was a spark in my brain. Thoughts gushed back, full paced. My wife and daughter were with their maker now, as a truck had smashed into their car earlier in the month. The morgue had called my hypertensive mother-in-law about it. I don't think the idiots figured how ominous the effect of their news would be. She died at the hospital after being rushed there in a comatose state.
Here was an Asian diner with seven 'o clock eyes peering at me behind trifocals (Lord, save me from sarcasm) bringing up the pain in a pack. Should I take the pack from him, my hands might get scarred. I didn't feel like trusting him. I felt nothing could stifle even an iota of trust for this stranger out of me, yet I suprised myself when I spoke. I relayed all my troubles to Him, void of abridgment of any sort. All he did while I spoke was listen. I told him of my crashed stock values, my confiscated crib and company, my aching tooth, my bad tempered friends, all of it. Including the most trivial problems.
How I managed to say all I did surprised me, but not as much as my listener's reaction. His mien erased my previous judgment of Him. His presence now seemed to radiate peace in the air, and his look complimented my new opinion of him. He simply said in a steady voice, "it's been three hours since you've been talking. I'll go fix you a cup of coffee, but before I do, let me tell you this. Jesus loves you. He'll take away your pain if you let Him." With that, he breezed away.
Peace flooded me. I still had one last resort to life. I then remembered an adage I once heard: "Failure is not falling, failure is failing to fall. Until you fall, you can't rise." Ben came back, a cup in his hands. He placed it on the table before me and said "And one more thing, son. Don't forget to share God's love. I ran away from Japan because of desolation, but I found a nun here in Illinois who shared the word." He left again.
As he went back to his counter, he paused at the table the other customer sat at. Her dinner must have been cooler than a dog's nose by then. I saw him give her a knowing stare, then he looked back at me from his distance. Tears were in the lady's eyes. The diner looked back at her momentarily and then trudged on to his counter. I figured what that meant easily. She needed the same kind of comfort I just got.
I worked my slumpy mass the nine yards to her table. As I sat, she raised her head for the first time. Her teary gaze burned hard into mine in expectation. "What's your name?" I asked.
"Your name is Ara. Idiot!" It was Dan, my roomie. "This is after eleven. How many times have I've tried to wake you to no avail! You would have slept forever if I let you."
Ara 'deinde
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