He clasps the crag with crooked hands,
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls,
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809 - 1892)

ok well, everyone and their mother has one of these nifty little things so i figured i'd give it a shot, although since i don't suffer from the normal teenage depression and quandaries that most of my friends seem to experience i really don't know what i'll write about. i hope no one gets mad at me for being happy all the time. sometimes i think people want to. ok bye.

testing this mofucker