Dean sinks down on his knees besides Cas’ body, looking up, waiting for someone, something to come and undo what just happened. It can’t be. Cas can’t be dead. Finally he lowers his gaze on the beloved face. So still, like he’s sleeping, and Cas so rarely sleeps. Dean’s throat hurts, his chest hurts, he can barely breathe now. He doesn’t know how much time passes, all he knows is that this is too much to bear, and the tears that finally escape him won’t soothe him. He falls on Cas’ chest and heaves through painful sobs, endlessly.
“Cut! And stay in position as much as possible, please! Okay, that was good. We have about fifteen minutes before sunrise, so I’d rather the transition goes smoothly.”
Nobody claps, as would probably be the case if they had filmed such an emotional scene during day time. The on-set crew is reduced to the minimum at this hour, and everyone is exhausted. People are talking low and moving around without paying attention to Misha and Jensen still lying on the ground.
Misha opens his eyes and puts a hand on Jensen’s back. He knows he shouldn’t move too much if he wants to find the exact same position again, but Jensen’s sobs aren’t stopping, and he doesn’t like that. Tears are starting to wet his shirt and they aren’t fake. A tired Jensen shooting an emotional scene at 5 am was probably a bad idea, and Misha would have said so if he’d been asked.
“Shhh, babe, it’s okay,” he whispers. He’s not even sure Jensen’s heard him; he continues weeping against Misha’s chest. Misha tries to take him back to the reality of the situation. “Come on, Jens, you’re going to smudge all your makeup on my wardrobe, and I can’t get up to change.”
Misha keeps running his free hand through Jensen’s hair, and slowly the crying calms down, but Jensen stays in the same position, face hidden against Misha’s chest, as if he is ashamed to lift it and look at Misha. They just lie there, and the cold is starting to seep into their bodies from the ground when a PA comes to them, carrying a blanket. She doesn’t speak, just makes eye contact with Misha who nods silently, and she spreads the blanket clumsily over them.
It takes several minutes for Jensen to start to relax. Misha watches the sky gradually lightening, and the crew around them beginning to busy themselves again.
“Okay, people, we need to do this one in one shot, you know that! No mistakes allowed, so get ready!”
The PA comes back to take the blanket away, and Jensen finally stirs as if he is coming out of a deep slumber. He lifts his head and catches Misha’s eyes.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, “I… I’m sorry.”
Misha can’t answer as someone comes up to reapply their makeup. The sky is starting to show a deep pink shade behind the mountains; in a minute, everyone except them draws back behind the camera line, and they hear a clap and a loud “Action!”
The door of the small wooden house opens but Dean doesn’t move from where he’s slumped over Cas’ chest. A scrawny teenager, in a much too big flannel shirt that reaches his skinny knees, comes out of the house. His eyes glow gold and he’s smiling, a weird ecstatic smile. He goes down the few front steps, walking straight to where Cas lies. Behind him, Sam hesitates on the threshold, as if knowing he can’t change the boy’s actions in any way.
The boy stops next to Cas, and Dean finally looks up when he hears him say, in a clear, high-pitched voice: “Castiel.” It’s not a question, not a plea, more like an affirmation, a simple statement.
The sky has taken a bright hue of pink and gold, and exactly as the first ray of sun shines from behind the mountain across the lake, a blinding beam of light springs out from the Nephilim’s eyes to Castiel’s heart, right where the angel blade stabbed him. Cas’ body seizes as the dazzling light spreads through it, and Dean falls back on his ass, his eyes squeezed shut. He’s still numb from the shock of what happened in the last couple of hours and when a searing pain burns his shoulder, he doesn’t react except for a full-body flinch - and then the pain is gone, just like that, and the light too.
When Dean opens his eyes, blue ones are staring back at him. His left shoulder throbs with his heartbeat, but he doesn’t care about it right now, doesn’t even want to glance at it for a second, because Cas is looking at him. With eyes full of life. And he’s breathing, and saying the one thing that Dean wasn’t expecting to hear ever again, “Dean”, in his unmistakable deep baritone.
“Cas… is that you? Really you?”
“Yes. You are hurt. Let me…” and he lifts his hand towards Dean’s shoulder. This time, Dean looks down left, and he gasps. His shirt sleeve is burnt and there, on his shoulder, angry-red and swollen, is the same handprint he wore nearly ten years ago when he rose from his grave. Castiel’s handprint.
“No, don’t,” he says as he stops Cas’ gesture. “I want to keep it. I want to keep you.” He’s dizzy and he doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but it doesn’t matter, because all that matters is Cas, not why he’s alive or how. He flings himself at Cas, and clings to him. He doesn’t want to ever let go.
“Cut! Awesome, you did it, guys!”
This time, the whole crew cheers. They all knew that they had to do it in one take, while the sun was rising; there was no room for errors, and it’s done. It worked, and now everyone just wants one thing: going to bed.
“Y’all have twelve hours to rest, and we’ll start again this evening for a few hours only, so please come back well rested!”
Jensen takes several minutes to loosen his grip on Misha’s coat and let him draw back. They stare at each other, dazed and exhausted. Finally, Misha grabs Jensen’s arm and pulls him to his feet.
“Come on, cowboy, let’s get you to bed. I’m sure you can at least walk to the car.”
“Mish… I’m sorry.”
“Shut up,” Misha offers, his tone softer than the words themselves. They’re approaching the car now, not having bothered with anything else, even saying goodnight (or day) to anyone, or removing their makeup.
“Can I… Please come and stay at my place,” and Jensen’s voice isn’t pleading, but strained and thin, and Misha knows he won’t deny him - and himself, if he’s being honest - the comfort. There’s no point in pretending he doesn’t need it too.
“Of course, assbutt.” The reference makes Jensen smile, at least. Misha opens the car door and they both slide on the back seat, squeezing close together, touching from shoulder to thigh. Jensen leans a bit stronger against Misha’s side until Misha, with a sigh, lifts his arm to allow Jensen to snuggle up to him.
While they ride in silence, the sun keeps rising.
(in this ficlet,
Jensen needs to be forgiven by Misha for something, but I don’t know what. Feel free to imagine!)
Author: Yagami-Raito-Kun For: Zenthisoror Pairings/Characters: Light Yagami, L Lawliet Rating/Warnings: Teen and Up Prompt: Light and L are stuck in a room representing the afterlife with no memories of each other. Together, they must piece together clues to their former lives. Author’s notes: Your prompt gave me a very “No Exit” vibe (one of my favorite plays), so I decided to work that in there explicitly. I hope you like it!
“This room is yours, sir.”
Light stepped past the dour concierge, peering through the newly opened doorway. Like the rest of the strange hotel, the room was cramped and colorless, lacking even a window to disrupt the monotony of the walls. The carpet was a dull, pale gray, and the room was unfurnished except for three sad-looking armchairs – one of which, to Light’s surprise, was already occupied.
“You’ve made a mistake,” he said. “This isn’t mine. Someone’s already in there, look.”
Prompt: There is no conspiracy! No one hand got us here, we are all damned together.
“Listen,” the holy ones say when the truth is known. “Listen, is this really how you think people want to go out? With the truth?”
You raise your chin. “I would. I am.”
The holy ones look unimpressed. “Good for you, you special snowflake. Meanwhile people are breaking. What have they done with their entire lives, protesting and ruling against the end? And it was all part of what landed them there? Heart-breaking. Soul-crushing.”
The unholy ones, surprisingly in step with the holy ones, nods. “Do you know what a crushed soul looks like? It’s not pretty, my guy.”
“I’m not your guy,” you say reflexively. You feel uncertain for the first time since the fire arced from the sky. “But it’s freeing. We couldn’t have known what would land us here. It’s admirable that we tried, but it’s over! It’s a release.”
The holy ones and unholy ones share a long, communicative look. Then they roll their eyes.
“Kid,” the holy ones say, “when have you ever met anyone in the whole history of existence that was chill enough to just let shit like this go?”
“And before you answer,” the unholy ones say, “go ahead and review all the crusades and religious wars, hmmm?”
“Th-they’ll learn,” you say.
“They’ll just learn to dismiss the purpose they lived their lives for,” the holy ones say. They turn to the unholy ones. “Is this one of yours?”
The unholy ones pull out a scroll of aged parchment and begin to unroll it. “No, socks with sandals? Mine have better fashion sense. They’re probably yo– oh fuck.”
“What?” you say, toes curling over the edge of your sandals. “It’s comfortable.”
The unholy ones sigh. “Come on, buck-o, you’re coming with me.”
You step back. “Wh- I can’t go to hell! I’m a good person!”
“You thought you were a good person,” the unholy ones say, “which, I mean, is pretty standard. But this whole superior-because-I-know-the-truth thing? Yeah, not such a good move.”
“I was enlightening people!” You are suddenly seized with bright light, the way it warps around you more reminiscent of rope than light. You struggle. “They were wrong so I told them–”
“–that they were inferior for believing,” the unholy ones finish for you. They begin to ease into the earth and, to your horror, you are dragged with them. “You took one of the most joyous aspects of their lives, their purpose, and degraded it. That’s worthy of what you know as hell, my guy.”
“I’m not your guy,” you say, again out of reflex. You watch in horror as your feet slip into the earth without resistance. “I’m a good person!”
“I’m sure you’ll learn,” the holy ones call after you, “to accept that you’re not!”
Summary: You had one bad hunt over a month ago, and everthing had taken a doward turn ever since. Even the boys start doubting your ability as a hunter. Pairing: SamxReader Words: 2604 Warnings: I’m guessing this counts as Angst… death? AN: Um, I don’t think I’ve ever written something like this before. Most of my previous fics have been reasonable, with reasonable endings. That means that this could be horrific… I don’t know how good I am at angst… of well. You never know unless you try! Not sure I am pleased with the ending, I may edit and reblog if something better comes to me. This is also my entry for Week 6 of the SPN Hiatus Writing Challenge! The prompt was ‘technically, it wasn’t on fire‘ I have bolded it in text.
“I told you it was a freaking Wendigo, but did you listen?
Nooooo, ‘it’s a skinwalker’ you said, ‘all we’ll need is silver’ you said.
Well, now look at the state of you” you ranted, pacing up and down in front of
the boys, who were sat looking bruised and muddy on the bed, both resembling
“Sam,” Dean started, not raising his head, “please tell your
girlfriend to stop acting like our mom.”
Sam shifted uncomfortably, eyes meeting yours for a split
second before returning to where his hands rested on his lap, “no way man. She’s
pissed” he mumbled back.
Both of them moaned in protest as you slapped the pair of
them round the head. Then you sent Dean off to his own motel room to shower
before banishing Sam to your own bathroom. If you hadn’t have gotten angry, you
were pretty sure you’d have broken down. You’d been terrified when they hadn’t
come back on time, and when they’d finally stumbled out of the woods you pushed
your fear down and replaced it with anger.
There was no way in hell you were letting them go back in
there without you, you weren’t being left behind a second time.
Note: Read the notes at the bottom for clarification. Remember, NO SPOILERS PLEASE, in the comments or anywhere on this account. I have not finished the novel. I stopped reading for now so that I can translate. No copy/paste and all that other shenanigans either. Vote/likes are highly appreciated. (◎ヮ◎)
I PROMISED there will be three chapters didn’t I? ٩(๑❛ワ❛๑)و Well….
NUMERO THREE is AQUI! (‾͈̑ ◟ ॢ‾͈̑๑)ഽ̵ᵘഽ̵ᵘ४꒰ ꒱
I want to thank everyone for being so patient with me and hoping for my health to be better. I’m still a bit sick, but rest assure, the medication is working….very slowly. Also, I’m always thinking when I can update for everyone so please don’t worry that I won’t update! I even sneak and translate at work at times hahaha :P *hugs*
Now, I know if I tell you that, and I tell you I was there on my birthday, and I was driving a rental red convertible Camaro for the occasion and I got pulled over by the cops, you’re going to think this is a very particular sort of story.
But it is not that sort of story.
It was 2013, and I was in Las Vegas for the NCTE conference (already this story has changed in your mind, I can tell), and it was the very last night of the very last day. At that point I had a very limited agenda: do the finest job of sleeping I could possibly imagine in order to not hate and destroy the world when I got up for my exceptionally early flight home.
I feel you can already sense this didn’t go well.
My hotel was pretty fabulous, I have to say, aside from the decor, which I’d describe as “tastefully misogynistic.”* The walls were sound-proofed within an inch of their lives, creating a pleasant, tomb-like existence which encouraged fantasies that I was the only person left on the planet.**
*much like a Cary Grant movie **later I would regret this
And my room was massive. As I lounged against the kitchen sink and then the couch and then on the bed and then got lost in the palatial two-roomed bathroom, I realized it was larger than my first apartment by several degrees of magnitude.
The hotel room:
My first apartment:
The bathtub alone was larger than my first apartment’s bathroom. In fact, the hotel tub was one of those jetted numbers that promises luxury and indulgence and other words they often say in jewelry commercials. For my part, I don’t like sitting still and I don’t like bubbles, so all I could think was: they could have put a trampoline there instead.***
***Actually, it was Las Vegas. There probably were some rooms with a trampoline option.
But back to my tale. As I got ready for bed after a late night book event, I felt strangely creeped out. You should know that this in itself was unusual. My parents had an affection for old houses in my youth, and I have had an affection for shadows since I was germinated in one, and just, in general, I tend to be the most harmful thing in any given space. These things combine to mean that it’s hard to rattle me.
And yet, I was creeped out.
It is just the poster of the headless naked girl, I told myself. You’re just eager to be home, where her nipples will not glare so resentfully at you.
I turned off the light. I closed my eyes. I began to hear … sounds. Knocking. Thunking. Footsteps?
Recall how before I had been delighted by the room’s soundproofing. I had spent three nights in a tomblike hotel room and now NOW, where was my tomb? Moreover, the noise didn’t seem to be coming from the hall or the rooms adjacent. Instead, the sounds were coming from the bathroom. I’d like to refer you floor plan above. Do you see how it has an interior wall? That is where the sound was coming from — knocks on that. So my first thought was: someone is in here.
I did what any author would do if they believed someone was in their hotel room. I hit the lights, seized the telephone from beside the bed as a weapon, and leapt upright on the mattress. What a threatening and tastefully misogynistic form I must have cut as I bristled in my t-shirt and underwear, clutching a James-Bondesque retro telephone, ready to bash someone’s brains in.
But of course there was no one there.
I turned on all the lights and checked the rooms out, but they were empty. I was in fact the last person on the planet. So I climbed back into bed. I turned off the light.
Sleep, Maggie. Your flight is in six hours.
Knocking! Thumping! Footsteps! The most annoying part was that I knew, now, that they hadn’t been going on while I was investigating the room with the lights on. I began to feel as if Something was toying with me.****
****I do believe in ghosts. I believe in them the same way I believe in albino squirrels. Sometimes, when you see something white, it’s an albino squirrel. But usually it is just a cat.
So I did what any author would if they believed there was a supernatural entity in the room with them. Without turning on the light, I said to the room, “If you’re a ghost, I’m not interested! I have heard far worse and I’m not in the mood!” And I closed my eyes.
Which is when a sound like a plane landing exploded from the bathroom.
I couldn’t immediately figure out what it was. It was, in fact, a stone-cold excellent first-place horror-movie sound. It roared, louder than anything, and it didn’t stop. Its timing had been perfect. And while I still had heard worse, as I had promised the room just a moment before, it had been a very long time.
I will admit, this was when I first quailed.
But I couldn’t just lay there. I very much would have preferred to. But instead I turned on the light, swore hatefully, and made myself go into the bathroom. I expected probably it was the last time, in fact, that I would ever go into a bathroom. Whatever was making the noise was going to kill me and in fact the story of Maggie Stiefvater was going to come to an end on the tiles of a Las Vegas bathroom, as so many stories do.
Spoiler: I did not die. The noise was the bathtub — all the jets had come on. Because I never use the things and because the jets were not really meant to be able to come on without water in the tub, it took me awhile to figure out how to turn them off.
Silence, finally. The hotel room really was tomb-like. Emphasis on tomb. Double emphasis on tombs have dead people in them.
I went back to bed. It took me a bit of resolve to turn off the light this time. I told the room, “I’m sleeping now. You may take a bath by yourself.”
I closed my eyes. Really hard. Like I meant it.
Sleep, Maggie, you have a flight in—
I wish you guys were all right here so I could demonstrate where this next sound happened. If I was telling the story in person, it would involve me slamming one fist into another. And I would do it right beside your face. So you jumped and blinked at me.
Because this sound happened right beside my head, and it came with an actual thump of the bed shaking, as something hit the headboard from my side of the wall.
I turned on the light.
I sat up.
The nipples across the room looked at me pointedly.
I just slept on the plane.*****
*****When I checked out, I told the guy what had happened. him: oh, that happens a lot. me: the jets coming on by themselves? So it’s a malfunction? him: oh, no, creepy things. People ask to change rooms all the time. But it doesn’t help. *laughs* me: *laughs* *wishes she’d slept in the convertible Camaro*
A/N: So I wrote this AU, it’s like a weird futuristic/mutant/mate au. And I just got the idea last night and I’m in love with it sooo…. Here it is.
“Do you need any help?” Elena said from the opposite side of the fire, giving her a skeptical crunch to her brow as Caroline picked up both water buckets.
“No I got it, but thanks.” Caroline said, throwing a lopsided grin at the young girl who was jabbing a stick lazily into the embers before her.
“If I have to come find you cause you are lost. I’m totally going to be pissed.”
“I’ll be fine mom.” She rolled her eyes, walking away from the comforting illumination of the camp fire and its occupants. The night was soft, illuminated by the pale erethral rays of the full moon overhead. The iridescent orb hung like the beckoning safety of a porch light leading her down the thin trail towards the river.
The river wasn’t far from their camp, but Caroline purposely took her time. After her time in the asylum, then now surrounded by her fellow outcasts it was an unexpected gift. One that she scarcely had the opportunity to seize anymore. The light chirping of crickets made an impromptu melody as her feet crunched against the gravel and the empty buckets swayed in rhythm dangling from her fingertips.
With the final bend the vegetation thinned and broke into the rocky beach. The moon reflected like glittering black diamonds off the water’s surface. The rush of water babbling across rocks was a peaceful lullaby from the shouting voices of camp.
She closed her eyes, letting the cool air tease the loose tendrils framing her face. The sound, the freedom, the bliss of solitude; she memorized every sensation.
With a heavy contented sigh she let her eyes drift back open. The metal of the bucket smacking against the rock was alien as she bent down to collect the first bucketful. As she knelt crouched she angled the bucket at varying degrees a, entirely different sensation rippled through her.
Every hair on her body stood on end, the gooseflesh rising as another tingle rippled through her.
She knew, she knew without even having to turn around.
She stood carefully navigating the now full container to a flat spot against the rocks careful not to spill.
She did not search for him with her eyes. But she felt his presence as if it was reflecting off of her skin.
“I know you’re there.” She said dryly as she reached for the other bucket, and stood.
There was no response.
His lack of reply coupled with the irritation she felt of being so hyper aware of his presence made her spin around.
He stood behind her, feet standing on the rocky shore without the faintest sound. He was staring directly at her, his eyes delving into her own. A shock this time coursed through her and she shoved it away. Still they battled, and fury at his audacity began to rise within her making her spine feel as if it was forged with steel.
It became too much. “What is your deal?” She snapped.
He blinked as if surprised she had the ability to speak let alone to him. Everything else faded away as she focused her anger on him. The water ceased to run its course, the crickets muted in eerie silence. Even the trees were frozen in terror of what they were about to witness.
He licked his lips, his mouth opening as if he were searching for what he intended to say. It had to be quite the feat considering as he had nerve spoken a word to her before now.
“I was not aware that my behavior was classified as problematic.”
His lilting accented voice cracked like lightning through her; even though he spoke softly it pierced through her skin. Out of the two options, never knowing him speak and having him standing across from her throwing out a quip to her exasperated jibe, the latter was infinitely worse.
It took her a moment to recover, to shake the tiny voice in the back of her head telling her to run as far away as her legs would take her.
“Well it is. So just leave me alone.” She turned, kneeling back down with the other bucket dipping the dull metal into the stream.
“Seeing as this is our first conversation. I find your inference that I’ve been bothering you curious.”
He sauntered sideways, maintaining equal distance away from her but moving in an arch towards the shore.
She shot him a sharp glare. “You know exactly what I am talking about.”
His cheekbones where sharp, the shadows of the moonlight making him more dangerous, more menacing. His presence that was already stifling her in the open air growing ever more imposing as time ticked forward.
“So I was not mistaken after all.” She shifted the back end of the bucket in the water allowing more to seep over the rim. It would be better if she simply ignored him, then he would leave her in peace and she could get a better control over herself. “I almost didn’t recognize you. It’s been so long since I’ve heard your tale that I had given up hope.”
She tipped the bucket up with a jerk, her irritation getting the better of her. The cool liquid sloshed precariously as she slammed it onto the shore standing at her full height.
“What the hell are you talking about?’ They had never met before, she… She stopped herself before her mind wandered down a path more dangerous than the one leading to the river.
“Back when I was young it was called Bashert. There is no real words that describe it’s true meaning now. I had thought that it had been forgotten…”
“Again. What the hell are you talking about?” His eyes met hers burning even in the dark. He took a single step forward, heat zapped through her and she stumbled back. He murmured the word again.
“What does that mean?”
“It can closely described as two halves of the same whole.”
Silence wept between them.
“Not in the least.”
She gripped both handles and heaved them up, marching carelessly back up the bank towards the mouth of the trail. “Then you’re crazy.”
She spun around to face him to find him hot on her heels. The proximity, the fire that it created caused her to take a step away. “You have to be crazy, because you just told me we are some twisted version of mutant soul mates.”
“I would not have put it so indelicately.” He said simply, making a mockery of her notion that this, whatever this was, was just some sort of sick joke he was playing on her.
“Right.” She said, sarcasm dripping like venom from her lips. “This is real life, not a movie, not a fairytale. There is no such thing as soul mates. Or unicorns. Or Dragons.”
“Of course there is. We have transcended the bounds of human limitations. How is the ability for me to create fire from my hands more believable to you then that we are fated?”
She opened her mouth to argue before the force of his logic stopped her. The things she’d seen alone were enough to classify her as a lunatic. Yesterday, she had watched a small girl throw a man twice her size with only the power of her mind. Not once had she questioned the powers that the people encamped here possessed. She had seen them, she had felt them.
The world was not what she thought it was.
There were Hybrids.
But she was not one of them.
“Well I’m sorry to break it to you but I’m not one of you guys.”
He tilted his head, the move oddly graceful as he took a step closer to her. The urge to scatter was all consuming but she forced herself to hold her ground as his eyes caressed her face. She could feel the answering hammer of her pulse in her temples as if it was a physical touch.
“Is that so?”
Yet you were held at the asylum?”
She shook her head, the water clapped loudly in protest and she worked to steady her balance.
“It was a mistake. I was picked up on an accessory to vagrancy charge. They just took me to the wrong place.”
“And you believe that?” He said skeptically. “That an institution that runs the government, that has hunted us down for centuries made a blunder like that?”
Doubt welled with her. “I… I’m not like the others. I don’t have any powers.”
“If you weren’t like the others…” He lifted his arm between them, hovering. The air sizzled and if she were to close her eyes she could hear it’s hypnotic crackle. “This wouldn’t be possible.”
Alarm bells rang in her head as the smoking tendrils of need began to pull at the frayed edges of her control. She took a step back, hoping that the physical distance would lessen the strain.
“I don’t feel anything.” The words sounded hollow as they dripped from her,. She cursed as a flash passed over his face. One of a deeper knowledge that surpassed thought. He knew. He knew she was lying.
“You’ve felt it. The loneliness.” He said matter-of-factly, shifting a step to the left. “The yearning for another. The emptiness and dissatisfaction of each boy that doesn’t fill that void.”
She scoffed. “Welcome to being single.”
“No, it’s more than that.”
“It painful isn’t it? The pull? I step closer to you and the ache lessens, but it never leaves. You are fighting it. Fighting it rather successfully and I want to know how. Because I cannot find the strength.”
Silence rang between them, his face was raw with his emotions.
“I do not know what you are talking about.” In reality, she felt every single word he spoke. How eloquently he was able to put the unexplainable connection she had to him into words. As if he had burrowed inside of her, and could feel the racing currents coiling within her, begging her to relents. Perhaps he could. She took another step up the trail. One, then another. “I’m going back to camp.
She turned, making every effort within her to start walking and not to look back at him.
“Good night Caroline.” Pain seared her as she fought to get further away. Away from the ache. Away from him.
Otakon 2014 - Yoshiki, founder of X Japan, performed a concert on Sunday showcasing some of the pieces from this latest classical album “Yoshiki Classical”. The album includes such highlights as Forever Love, the Golden Globe Themes, Seize The Light, Amethyst (the first orchestral piece he ever composed), and more. The album, available on iTunes, is a must-have for classical and non-classical fans alike. The pieces are intricately written and express an eclectic multitude of emotions.
During his performance of Art of Life, Heath and Pata of X Japan came out to play alongside him on stage to promote the upcoming X Japan show at Madison Square Garden in New York City! The audience roared with applause and cheers of delight as the two members came on stage. I had seen Yoshiki perform on stage only once before and to see him perform again was an honor. Yoshiki plays with a grace and passion that is truly a treat to see.
Art of Life
Follow this link to see photos of Yoshiki’s concert:
Robert Cornelius (1809-1893), the inventer of the Hipstamatic daguerrotype, was a pioneer in the human expression of stylish alienation and brooding ennui. As his 1839 self-portrait attests, for as long as photographs have existed humans been poppin our collars.
Robert Hirsch, Seizing the Light: A History of Photography, entry on Robert Cornelius, McGraw-Hill, 2000