Sometimes I’m lucky enough to stop things...

Eyes on Me

Sometimes I’m lucky enough to stop things for a minute. My mind comes out of what’s next and simply slips to now and nothing. These are cool moments with just the right pressure under my eyes. My heart beats and I breathe and the world just beautifully is.

I don’t know a lot of things… but it doesn’t matter. My heart is easy and I feel complacent, peaceful. The train rolls on, and I in it, so many others on their way home long after birds laid down for the night. The seats are soft and warm, the people quiet and contemplative. I have a bicycle, a brain, two legs and a home. I’ve seen things big and small, and if I never left this car again it would be enough. For dreams, and memories, and feelings woven between the two that fill and flush my soul; can I put it simply enough?

Being is a mindset, a constantly recording tape that picks up the sadness and the joy, and lets it go on a long, deep river that stretches ever on into the sunset that one day I’ll meet.

I rolled up my sleeves today and made the stand...

+1 to cooking, +1 to festivity

I rolled up my sleeves today and made the stand for American holiday perseverance in a foreign land. Once again, I cooked dinner for my second Thanksgiving (date adjusted for work) in Japan, and this time with my own apartment and a vast array of kitchen utensils at my disposal, nearly tripled my output from last year. Again, with the faithful Mikiko side, I managed to put together a decent menu, though still a far cry from the copious repast I know everyone else in my family enjoyed in Fredericksburg.

Last night I raided the discount produce sellers on Rokugo dori to teeter away with a boatload of broccoli, cucumbers, bananas, potatoes and celery. This afternoon I succeeded in procuring a ceramic casserole dish at the indispensable Tokyu Hands, but after three stores failed in the search for another glassware baking pan. The end result is I had to halve the Hawaiian banana nut bread, but I nearly danced with glee upon seeing two casserole dishes bubbling side-by-side in my National/Panasonic wonder-oven at the closest ten degrees centigrade approximation to 325 Fahrenheit.

Notice the charming nuts we have here. Must…resist…urge to say breathily “Oh, James!”…

So I couldn’t find a whole chicken at Venga Venga or the Keio department store, but it was probably for the best because I didn’t want to press my luck with already five things all cooking at once. So we had “saucy chicken breasts”, a la the unflagging domestic assistant that is Southern Living magazine. I also tried my hand at my mother’s much famed dressing (courtesy of Grandma Hynden), and the Japanese equivalent to her sweet potato casserole (Japanese sweet potatoes aren’t really that sweet, and they’re yellow). Six brown potatoes brought up the rear with a formidable serving of carbohydrates, which were offset nicely by the fresh, boiled broccoli. Of course we had to have cucumbers and onions in vinegar to top things off. And the crowning achievement for the day was a first stab at my mother’s other holiday specialty, the aforementioned Hawaiian banana nut bread. Which, amazingly, I didn’t screw up. The only thing I would change is baking it at 170 instead of 180, and for a longer period of time, so the inside gets a little firmer. Still, it tastes just great and the crust is quite pleasing.

In the words of Michael J. Fox, “I don’t mean to honk my own horn but, ‘Beep, beep!'”

So, after a bottle of Asti, and a candlelight feast to consume the fruits of our labor, Mikiko promptly dropped off to contented snoring and I got a little closer to Chrono Cross. Now here it is quarter of midnight and I actually don’t have anything to do [at the moment]. Such a strange feeling. Something tells me I’m going to sleep well tonight. It could be the satisfaction of all that cooking (and doing the dishes and vacuuming afterwards!), or it could just be that third piece of banana nut bread.

[PS – Notice how when talking about making the bread, I said “Which, amazingly, I didn’t screw up.” Whenever I here something say “screw up”, I instantly think of Algebra II in tenth grade. One time while our teacher was walking around to check if we were doing okay, I did a bad job of explaining some equation and when asked if she got it, Carrie Burger replied, “No, Dave got me all screwed up.” This itself really shouldn’t mean anything at all, but our teacher overreacted and took it in some way crass or sexual or something, and reprimanded the two of us for using such language. This made no sense at all to me as I’d seen plenty of old 50s Looney Tunes were people were referred to as “screwy”, as in mixed-up, or strange. Ok, whatever.]

That’s what I’m thinking right now,...

RPGs are like girls

That’s what I’m thinking right now, trying to decide what I what to spend my precious evening doing. I mean, I could out, but I’d be by myself and it would cost money, which I really don’t have. So, nix that idea and be a homebody [loser!].

Then we have movie watching, which feels like a waste of time because I’m not _doing_ anything, and there’s getting a jump start on tomorrow’s Thanksgiving Dinner cooking, which I’ll probably end up putting together in a little anyway.

So…use the computer to work on a hobby? No, I hate computers. I can’t believe I’m typing this right now. The only reason I am is because I was SO driven by the aforementioned entry title that I knew I could/had to hammer something out in less than fifteen minutes. But yes, video games.

RPGs are like girls for a number of reasons, and like so many other corny lame comedy email forwards, I will post them here in list format, illustrating my point. No, wait. That’s too lame. I need real sentences and continuity. Ok, take two.

RPGs are like girls essentially because they both require a substantial investment of time and patience and it’s not clear from the start whether it’ll be worth the effort in the long run. Right now I am playing Chrono Cross, which won from a suite of three games (Saga Frontier 2, Lunar: Eternal Blue), as it had the highest score of the three on Game Rankings. Ninety-two percent makes it seem like a damn fine game. If only it were so.


Don’t tease me like that. Just, you know, don’t.

The combat system is boring and ungratifying. Given, I have not read the manual so I guess I can’t say I understand it completely but the dry tone Devin Morgan takes when giving his “boss strategies” [attack to build up your level, use attack elements and repeat] is completely on target. That seems to be about it. No big summons, no awesome weapons or special skills (one of my characters attacks with a slotted spoon), and the most mindless button mashing that puts even certain beat-em-ups to shame. It’s not hard either, I’ve died only once and that was because I wasn’t really even looking at the screen. Every battle is a yawn and just takes too long, getting in the way of the location-hopping. The story, invariably the most important part of an RPG to me, is weak and after seven hours has yet to produce any drama or emotional attachment.

Like Chrono Trigger [a very good game], the main character doesn’t directly say anything, supposedly so I can more easily assume his role, but this just ends up irritating me with its indifference. One of the reasons I stand by Final Fantasy IX is because the lead character has a strong personality with depth. He’s honorable, cocky, and has a decent sense of humor (something rare among lead characters). I can’t say the same for Serge (I named him Rouille). He just floats along mutely shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head. An additional rough point for me is the most interesting character, Kid (aka Eilonwy), is not even the hero’s love interest (that would be spoon girl). And from what I’m seeing now she’s going to end up with stupid old Korcha (aka Limpy), because he has already gotten her to agree to consider marrying him for use of his boat (how romantic). Given my experience with secondary characters taking wives, once it’s declared, even if it seems unlikely, it almost always ends up that way. Then again, Kid doesn’t even exhibit special feelings for Serge anyway, he went back in time to save her life and she just said thanks. I know she’s tough, but that’s pretty damn cold if you ask me.

So, like I said, RPGs are like girls. I’m finding it very difficult to hang in there with Chrono Cross, especially when I’ve got like fifty other games to play, some of which I’ve already beaten. Vice City in particular is has been calling lately with all the 80s radio I’ve been listening to at work. Here again, just like girls. Vice City is the old flame that ended too soon. Yeah, you had your problems, your fights, disagreements in fashion, z-buffer issues and saved games erased, but in the end it was probably some of the best thirty-five hours you ever spent with a curvy piece of plastic. It was good, it ended, and you had to move on. Now you’re seeing someone else who you really weren’t that crazy about from the start, and it’s starting to get really hard not noticing that the old flame is back in town. You had a cup of coffee, but you’re not sure you want to do anything else. You KNOW it’ll be good, so gratifying, but… it’ll just make you want more and destroy the thing you got going with the vapid, emotionless job you have waiting at home. And I can never walk away from an RPG. At least I don’t THINK I can. I never have, though I’ve been forced out of one (cough Parasite Eve 2 cough).

So, I lied to myself again. Fifteen minutes became twenty-two, without hyperlinks and the optional inline picture. So, I gotta go. Gotta go and make the stuffing, and gotta go back to my drab, over-praised fan favorite and bond for a couple more hours.

Oh and I almost forgot, there is virtually NO MUSIC whatsoever in CC!! The soundtrack is like a half-done seventh grade diorama of Eskimos made from sugar cubes and Lego Men still wearing their medieval knight gear… incomplete in appearance and dragging the entire experience down.

Yes, this is my life, not a depressing mini-series...

[insert angry wookie scream here]

Yes, this is my life, not a depressing mini-series on Lifetime. It is SUCH a beautiful day that the sun is pouring in through every crevice in my little room, making it so bright that it feels like I’m outside, even though all the thick fire glass windows are closed and the bamboo shades are drawn.

It is SUCH a rare and beautiful day, in fact, that of course I have to go to work now, a la “crunch time” to the alpha (I’ve already been at the office 70 hours this week). In the words of the great former manager of Club Wilkins, [Brandon Chang] this suxors.

Herein lies the ageless battle between the human...

Ethics versus pragmatism

Herein lies the ageless battle between the human heart and a reasoning mind.

An umbrella is left in the train. An umbrella forgotten by a tired passenger, one of hundreds if not thousands lost in Tokyo EVERY SINGLE TIME IT RAINS. What happens to these umbrellas? At the last stop, when the railway ceases operation for the day, one guy walks through the cars, picks them all up, and puts them in a box which is moved weekly to a very large box at some major station, whereupon they will wait some indeterminate amount of time until an owner takes the trouble to go all the way out to Shinjuku (after first remembering, making a note, and vowing to waste an evening doing it), and jump through some hoops and forms to get it back. That, or it goes in the trash or some umbrella recycling center that benefits starving, homeless, veteran babies.

But it’s someone ELSE’S umbrella.

But if I don’t take it, it’s basically landfill fodder. And I don’t have an umbrella.

But the HONOR CODE SAYS that we won’t take stuff that isn’t ours.

Yeah, but common sense and sensible earth-love says that if there is a chance to use something instead of have it be chucked into a smelly, toxic hole, USE IT!! I use EVERYTHING until it decomposes on its own (wearing a pair of Bugle Boy cords 13 years and counting).

Besides, Matt says umbrellas are the courtesy currency of the world. You lose one, you take one. They trade hands and states so easily they might as well be Lincolns.

But Mr. Jefferson would be disappointed in me!

So, after the fifteen minute ride has ended, one side wins in desperation. The battle of ethics versus pragmatism is over, and I have a new wooden-handled umbrella.

Simple pleasures

It has probably been since Pittsburgh that I had a bowl of Cheerios.

That is far too long.

I can’t think of strong enough terms at the moment, but I’ll for now I’ll say I just heartily enjoyed a bowl of Cheerios, thanks to a shopping list care package from Jennifer. Although I’ve pined for the big, yellow box for quite some time, I had nearly forgotten the immense pleasure I derive from a heaping scoop of whole grain oat discs, slathered with a heavy shot of low-fat (or better yet, skim) milk.

I must have hit my head getting off the plane.

These plain, powdery gems have soaked up my saliva ever since Mom plopped me down into that little chair with wheels for the first time. I’d get a sizable amount of the dry goods scattered on my tray, from which I would use awkward, chubby digits to cram every last scrumptious morsel into my drooling mouth. Though my brother and father always had to have the sugary “Honey Nut” strain, I knew better.

Good ol’ plain Cheerios are such a powerful force that man is not the only creature privy to their majesty. My dear departed rabbit (God rest his and screen co-star Rodney Dangerfield‘s souls) was also beset with ravenous lust for General Mills’ culinary apex. Thumper was so motivated to get ahold of as many Cheerios as he could, that if placed in a room with a closed box, he would climb furniture and knock it over in order, placing himself in position to open the flaps with his mouth, so that he could then drag the bag halfway out into the open and bury his face in kibble heaven. Rabbits may or may not be color blind, but all it took was a sighting of a box, or the sound of the meal rattling within, and he would hurl himself against the roof of his house and demand access.

In any case, the Cheerios are mine once more, and I have several boxes on order from the big M&D, so I should be good for a short while [provided I can find something else to do after completing this post].

It’s cold. The pores in my skin are tingling...

In a country, far away

It’s cold. The pores in my skin are tingling. My arms and shoulders are heavy. I’m listening to Yoko Kanno [Seat Belts – Fingers] on cheap Sony headphones that hurt my ears after having worn them for two hours.

Days and weeks and months and years, I sat at a keyboard and thought about my life.

Made with 100% dreams

Lives and cars and highways and lines running every which way from a plane that flew over the city which was a speck unseen by a passing bird that flapped its wings in space smiling at a blue planet.

My life is here, and it’s now. Fifteen years later it will be here, and now, though the first of which may be some distance from the point at which this was written.

If a light burns out in the park by my window it will be dark, and for some time thereafter every night will be the same until someone notices and after noticing tells someone who will in turn notice and tell someone else until eventually the light will be replaced. Or it could just come back on right now. Either way, the light went out and it was dark and more likely than not it will be back on at some point in time. How much time and what happens in the dark is actually of very little consequence much like you reading this with the light on or not and being oblivious to the fact and very well may be forever.

If we talked, or laughed, or fought, or cried than I’m glad, and happy, and guilty, and sad, but I know you and you know me, or maybe you’ve yet to know me but some day, long, long after the light has been taken down and a tree has grown in its place you may wish you had talked or laughed or fought and cried with me, and for that I am thankful. So I want to give you my very best words, selecting each like a tiny, polished pebble on the shore.

Some dark, some light, some odd-shaped and some quite flat. We walk on so many of them during the day, whether ten meters below in the earth or just underfoot. Life like words, is made of such things, each different and some pleasurable to look at and some not, but the things that are, are and the things that are not, are not, and we will all walk over them in any case.

I am aware of stones in view and those in not, and pretend to be aware of even those that may not be there, but that is just foolishness. Because life is hollow and indifferent to the rules and boundaries put out by man to make him feel safe. But life will be life and even as simple a concept that it is I will enjoy it, enjoy it for the things that are pleasurable and those that are not, and try to remember that in the end of this one phase of my existence (be that as it may), just being is beauty enough, and so what else can one do but laugh, and sigh, and move, move, move through it all with a simple kind of grace?

I’m tired. But I feel good. It’s like...

Saturday sun

I’m tired. But I feel good. It’s like an accepting kind of good, something to realize and know in the base of your neck, and my arms are heavy.

The construction workers are finishing the outside of the new apartment building across the street. The smell of hot tarmac and sulfur is thick, it adds weight to the air.

I can feel the individual hairs bristle in my mustache’, stiff with oil and fatigue. The sun is falling faster now. It’s November but seventy degrees outside. The light sways gently in stenciled patterns through the fruit trees outside my window, a soft, blurred layer on top of the stubbled concrete wall outside my eastern window.

Children were playing in the park, and a builder was eating lunch, his white, plastic hard hat scuffed and resting on the bench beside him.

I went to bed fairly early last night, it was probably the smartest thing I’ve done all week. I was content to lay on my wrecked sofa bed and stare at the television.

I watched End of Evangelion today. It was better than the companion TV episodes twenty-five and twenty-six, but the ending still left me feeling flat and let down. Shinji is a rat; a whiny, poor excuse of a human who’s outstanding qualities consist of screaming, crying, and doing nothing while his friends are butchered and destroyed. I’ve never loathed a lead character so much before. Though Hideki Anno is a great director and visual artist, the climaxes of his writing are less like a tense moment coupled with the sweet release of denouement, and more closely resemble a punch right after a kiss, followed by a long, three hour diatribe that wanders in circles reminding you of all the weak things you’ve done in your life.

Still, I liked the series overall. It was passionate, and the characters were well developed for the most part, until they all let each other down at the end, quickly growing lethargic and stale. Despite the agonizing inaction of the series end, the visual montages and live film stock were actually quite beautiful, and they gave me things I hope to use in my own work.

I want to ride my bicycle, but it’s two thirty, and I’m still weak from the company new project “kick off” party last night. However, the weather tomorrow should reproduce the pleasant conditions we’re having today, so I think I’ll just go to bed early and get outside tomorrow morning.

For now, I think I need a shower; a shower, and some quiet time to just be inactive, cold and numb… inactive, cold, and numb like Shinji; like all people should be sometimes.

Without great amounts of fanfare I turned twenty...

Rain, Elle, socks, and turning twenty-five

Without great amounts of fanfare I turned twenty-five last Saturday. I’m trying to remember when birthdays went from being hair band CD gift showers at Village Lanes duckpin bowling, to a feigned sense of surprise and a rainy day alone with a ten-thousand yen bill from the office.

Let’s wind back the clock and watch the calendar days fall. Saturday the 16th I had a joint birthday party with my undergraduate friend Yoshiki at the infamous Taiheisan restaurant/bar, known among Japanese programmers for its cosplaying waitresses. Luckily, I was able to summon enough acquaintances (and sake) that I was quite entertained and the two hours just zipped by over laughter and presents including pig spice dispensers and a replica Ichiro jersey. The downside is I really didn’t pay much attention to the waitresses this time, only snapping a single obligatory photograph.

Afterwards, high on hot rice wine I proclaimed the continuation of our revelry at a nearby karaoke hall and sang a lot of things I don’t remember, but if it was my standard repertoire, probably something along the lines of “New York, New York”, “Sweet Caroline”, and “Yume no Naka e”. All in all, kick… ass. I consider myself especially lucky that I could get a dozen people together in a city where no one ever has time for anyone.

Jump ahead thirteen days to last Friday, whereupon I receive the yearly all too on the mark Hallmark gem from my mother, and over an impromptu lunch at Mother Leaf, plans are made for me to be celebrated by my coworkers after I squeak out the door at half-past eight. We go to a sports bar in Meidaimae. Due to some wormhole through time I manage to spend over five _hours_ in the same establishment (mostly thanks to the unbelievably slow service), watching Italian soccer on a really poor projector/wall setup and drinking one of just about everything on the menu. [You must understand how much of a feat this is for me, as normally I go mad if I’m in the same place of business for more than an hour and a half.] These things are starting to become ever so slightly less painful than they were a year ago as I’m able to participate in enough of the conversation that I can appear mildly entertaining.

At half past two goodbyes are said and everyone takes a taxi, some of which run upwards of fifty dollars for Kawasaki. Fortunately I live close enough that I could (_could_) walk home, but share one anyway with a guy that lives near me and it’s like eight bucks (which he pays). Then, after working another seventy hour week and having over half a dozen drinks, I instinctively shirk the sensible man’s calling to go home and feel that ten thousand yen bill burning a hole through my satchel. So I do what I always do when I get home late, alone, and half drunk- I go to Marie, the “hostess” bar above the ratty Venga Venga supermarket and just barely make it in before the three am closing time. But since it’s my birthday, two forty-five is good enough for a beer and a song. And from some other perhaps related temporal disturbance, I end up hanging out alone and chatting with the mama-san that runs the place until about quarter after five when she politely asks me to leave when I finish my crab leg and tofu soup. Wow. Where did the energy come from? Jack Daniels I guess. As a bonus for my continued patronage I receive two pair of birthday Burberry socks (about four centimeters too short) from Isetan. I’m honored, despite how the idea of wearing the stocking-thin old man dress socks makes me queasy. The owner tells me that the embroidery on the ankles indicates they are in the top tier as far as socks go, and I have no trouble taking her word for it.

Feeling sheepish but content, I bicycle home to call my mother and blather on about something until about the fortieth time she tells me to go to bed. [Aah, the nostalgia…]

Saturday I meant to get up at eight and ride my bike until the wheels fell off (or my camera died), but mother nature wanted to screw with me some more and bring out a bone-chilling rain for the first day I’ve had to myself in about a month. Figures. I don’t let that totally ruin my plans though, and after a failed attempt to claim a parcel at the post office, I wander around the temple near my house for about half an hour, reading gravestones and touching worn stone Buddhas.

It was actually really nice, the kind of cold where your nose turns chilly and taut, but a couple shirts on top of each other keep you warm. The best part were these basins positioned right under the rain spouts on the eaves of the temple roof. Rain water fell in perfect, sputtering columns of icy daggers to land in the overflowing basins and burble over the sides. I couldn’t resist putting my hand directly in the stream of water plummeting from three meters above. The synesthaesia of the cumulative temperature and force with which the water fell was amazing. I turned my palm facing up and got the stream to hit right in the center, at the weakest part of the hand. The stabbing pain was simply fantastic. It was mildly agonizing and pleasurable at the same time, like I was aware of how it hurt but the way that it hurt was so peaceful and natural that it just seemed right. I wish I could explain it better, but it was the most tranquil I’d felt in ages.

Unfortunately, as if driven by a mysterious force to destroy any brief flashes of zen, I was compelled to stop by a convenience store on the way home and somehow managed to spend thirty dollars on sandwiches, Oreos, and a copy of Dorimag. On a whim I serviced a biannual need to purchase a fashion magazine and picked up a copy of Elle, partially because I wanted to study the photographs and partially because Kirsten Dunst was on the cover. Oh well, so much for piety.

Saturday night Mikiko took me out for my birthday and we saw Frankenweenie and The Nightmare Before Christmas at Cinecitta. We had dinner at a garlic restaurant and of course the next day was the parade.

So, that’s about it. Aside from the card my mom sent, I haven’t gotten anything in the way of remote birthday congratulations, but one or two people have said they were thinking about me. I’m a little hurt that one or two people in particular didn’t say anything, but I guess that’s the way it goes. It was nice here, anyway.

Sunday was of course, Halloween. I participated...

Champion of ten minutes’ preparation

Sunday was of course, Halloween. I participated in the annual Kawasaki La Citadella Halloween Parade again (the first thing I can honestly say I’ve done annually in Japan!!), and managed to set new a record in impromptu costume fabrication. If you remember, last year I was an otaku (geek), having not had enough time to be Sora from Kingdom Hearts. This year I went even lower and cannibalized a kazoo and a broken umbrella to become Duckman Champion of Aquatic Fowl] in a matter of fourteen minutes. (I wanted to be a giant maneki neko. Le sigh…)

Here we see last year’s “quasi-costume” [left] and this year’s hack [center]. Mikiko was of course an Imperial Storm Trooper, err, a French maid. [Hasn’t this happened to me before?]

Again my warped body contortions and method acting drew laughter and applause from the crowd (how many techno-dancing ducks do you know?), as well as the occasional “Kawaiiiiii!! (That’s SO CUTE!!)”. I actually had a handful of photographers with professional cameras steal closeups of me, so who knows I may currently be on the net or the cover of Yokohama Walker. The “nicest” reaction of all though was the “Nani are?!” from a couple young boys, which can be best translated as “What the hell is that?!”

You may be wanting to ask me that since I commonly...

Where have you been? Are you okay?!

You may be wanting to ask me that since I commonly post three times a week. In fact, there’s a three in thirteen chance that you already have. Thank you.

Yes, I am alive, despite the earthquakes. The truth is they were pretty bad in Niigata, which is about a hundred and fifty miles to the northwest. Here we had some quick shaking several times over the past week, but no damage. Unfortunately most of the area near the epicenter is devastated.

The earth torqued about like the hands on a clock.

Roughly 100,000 people are living in someplace other than their homes right now. That means tents or cars (the latter being far worse than you may imagine due to blood clots). It is currently estimated that forty percent of all the homes in the area will have to be rebuilt or worked upon before they are safe to live in again.

I am quite fortunate that nothing bad has happened where I live, not just because of the short-term ramifications but the after effects as well. It seems a good number of people in Niigata are experiencing considerable psychological damage and stress. Being in a situation where you nearly die isn’t just a shock, the memory of the experience can stay with you and cause physical harm for quite a while.

I personally am more brittle emotionally than most, so I think even just continued exposure to the frequent tremors here could get to me over time. On the other hand, I’m quite pragmatic (perhaps ignorant is a better word) about the whole thing and trying to maintain a sense of normalcy constructed from statistics and the chaos of the whole situation. I really can’t do much about it, so there’s no sense in worrying. Thanks to my job, chances are I will be inside and not alone when a major earthquake does occur, so at least I have an idea of what I _think_ may happen. And very few people that die due to the natural disaster perish during the actual earthquake itself, so I can build a false sense of security about the uncontrollable precipitating events. Anyway, like I said, no sense worrying, or really even talking about it. I’m fine.

As for those that are not, well, I guess I’d wish them some of my strength and optimism.

Armin van Buuren Live At Passion (ASOT Episode 96...

BT – Mercury and Solace

in nightfall I’ll meet you
seeds of desire absolve
there’s no going back
I’m losing control
as the morning creeps up
and I’m looking for the shade
in your embrace
my grieving says
reach out for me, reach out
reach out for me, reach out

I know you’re there you’re there
reach out for me, reach out
reach out for me, reach out

I may go with you

all these voices
all these voices
reach out for me, reach out
reach out for me, reach out
reach out for me, reach out
reach out for me, reach out

I savour every moment
I’ll savour every moment
you’re precious
you’re precious to me

Armin van Buuren Live At Passion (ASOT Episode 96)

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