Eigentropic Dawn

In His perfect time...
Love is patient. It is the squareroot of the cube of the calculated stress of the thermal expansion due to the temperature gradient, not neglecting friction with slipping, of the two uniformly mixed substance in the so-called batch reactor in which the reaction rate constant of the system approaches infinity. We can always use EOSs, Virial equations, Sequences and profiles BUT we can NEVER ASSUME! XD

So, as you see, this is life. :)) JOKE !!


Basta ang alam ko, LOVE ako ni God...

My joy is complete in Him. ^_^


Someday in His perfect time <3 :]

You, my answered prayer, God's blessing and my forever love. <3
theparisreview: One could as well have chosenthat life of supermarket cartsjunked in the backyard,where you stand and waitwith your mechanic’s handsand a bare chestin summer, lightbehind you jammed into the picture,its code undecipherableeven by the camera,so steep and dense itsdreaming smeared on the warpedboards of the toolshed, makeshiftcinder path, and what once must have beengrass of a lawn now given wayto automobile parts and that complicationof wreckage, brutal and casualat once, whose talent it is to attachitself to us in Californiaor to those lives in other placeswe accede to. Where evening finds usI cannot name yet; these are livesbest seen, or dreamt, beneath that sunof backyard chaosand indeterminate nourishing power,that sun of rusting crankshafts,of beached headlights, where you waitfor what shall not be named yet in this poem, where evening finds us,should it find us,on a second-hand mattress whose bent springsjangle when the wind lies right,those mechanic’s handsto small availagainst the infinitemachine turningthe stars on over California,the dark no doubt insisting moonlightcolor chaos silver soon in backlotswhere supermarket cartsand auto bodiesawait, if we are gifted,restoration at our hands(and we are gifted),we who, beneath that daylight etchedlike anniversaries on the calendarnailed to the toolshed wall,wait for what has not disclosed its name,neither in Californianor in this life of bleached,unlikely places. Herbert Morris, “These Are Lives”Photography Credit Lluís Tudela Apples

theparisreview:

One could as well have chosen
that life of supermarket carts
junked in the backyard,
where you stand and wait
with your mechanic’s hands
and a bare chest
in summer, light
behind you jammed into the picture,
its code undecipherable
even by the camera,
so steep and dense its
dreaming smeared on the warped
boards of the toolshed, makeshift
cinder path, and what once must have been
grass of a lawn now given way
to automobile parts and that complication
of wreckage, brutal and casual
at once, whose talent it is to attach
itself to us in California
or to those lives in other places
we accede to.

Where evening finds us
I cannot name yet; these are lives
best seen, or dreamt, beneath that sun
of backyard chaos
and indeterminate nourishing power,
that sun of rusting crankshafts,
of beached headlights, where you wait
for what shall not be named yet in this poem,

where evening finds us,
should it find us,
on a second-hand mattress whose bent springs
jangle when the wind lies right,
those mechanic’s hands
to small avail
against the infinite
machine turning
the stars on over California,
the dark no doubt insisting moonlight
color chaos silver soon in backlots
where supermarket carts
and auto bodies
await, if we are gifted,
restoration at our hands
(and we are gifted),
we who, beneath that daylight etched
like anniversaries on the calendar
nailed to the toolshed wall,
wait for what has not disclosed its name,
neither in California
nor in this life of bleached,
unlikely places.

Herbert Morris, “These Are Lives”
Photography Credit Lluís Tudela

Apples