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W
Dear Pandora Visitor,
We are deeply, deeply sorry to say that due to licensing constraints, we can no longer allow access to Pandora for listeners located outside of the U.S. We will continue to work diligently to realize the vision of a truly global Pandora, but for the time being we are required to restrict its use. We are very sad to have to do this, but there is no other alternative.
We are deeply, deeply sorry to say that due to licensing constraints, we can no longer allow access to Pandora for listeners located outside of the U.S. We will continue to work diligently to realize the vision of a truly global Pandora, but for the time being we are required to restrict its use. We are very sad to have to do this, but there is no other alternative.
J
There is an alternative. http://1.1.hidemyass.com/index.php?q=cGFuZG9yYS5jb20=&hl=0 It loads kinda slow at first though.
i think this counts as random? I gotta submit a piece for this writing project/book that we are publishing... umm... so PUHLEAZE give me feedback!!! and if you do read it...um... haha, Sam represents The Past.
The sunshine, hot and dry, kisses my face with a cool breeze. I hear the creak of the swing through the silence telling me a story, one I’ve heard several times before. It’s never old. There’s a bird telling to me forget. But I can’t.
The heat pulses through my veins and pinks my cheeks. It reminds me of his touch, warm and comforting, but bringing sweat from every part of me, even my heart. Warmth filled my lungs and bones. Not heat. Warmth goes deeper than physical.
The wind blows faster and the swing grows louder, making the story fall back deep in my soul still booming though. I look up as the sky darkens. Sigh, it looks like rain.
“It doesn’t always rain,” he had said. I remember. The words rang in my ears like a bomb exploding overhead; well, more like inside of me. I want to cry, but don’t. He’s not worth crying over, but then why do I feel the way I do? Heck, why am I contradicting myself? It starts to rain. How cliché.
I heard people’s stories are hidden in raindrops. But people’s stories are usually uninteresting. They’re born, they live, they die. But some people die, but still go on living. Those are the rare people with the rarest personality type, the introverts, the judging. I’ve never understood it. It’s like a plague, an internal one that makes me more and more isolated. But no matter what, it never makes me forget. I think I might try and live, forgetting that I’ve already died once before. There’s still something left in me, things that will carry me on. After all, living ghosts float. Me? I float on the hard things like broken love, shattered hearts, loneliness, and regret.
That’s all he used to say. Of course, he said a great many things, mostly quotes that are not well known, and also things I don’t remember. As a matter of fact, it’s been so long, almost a year, that’s I’ve forgotten the exact symmetry of his face, as I knew so well a long time ago. I used to dream about him every night, terrific dreams. But after that day, the dreams began to lessen, and the colours in his face began to fade, and altogether, after a prolonged period of black and white, blurry dreams, he disappeared completely from my life. I hate to admit it, but I had forgotten all about him. Friends, happiness, and life filled my existence and little by little, Sam, my very best friend (as he once was) was nothing more than a faint and fading memory, just like stories fading to legends. He was silent… until now
The sunshine, hot and dry, kisses my face with a cool breeze. I hear the creak of the swing through the silence telling me a story, one I’ve heard several times before. It’s never old. There’s a bird telling to me forget. But I can’t.
The heat pulses through my veins and pinks my cheeks. It reminds me of his touch, warm and comforting, but bringing sweat from every part of me, even my heart. Warmth filled my lungs and bones. Not heat. Warmth goes deeper than physical.
The wind blows faster and the swing grows louder, making the story fall back deep in my soul still booming though. I look up as the sky darkens. Sigh, it looks like rain.
“It doesn’t always rain,” he had said. I remember. The words rang in my ears like a bomb exploding overhead; well, more like inside of me. I want to cry, but don’t. He’s not worth crying over, but then why do I feel the way I do? Heck, why am I contradicting myself? It starts to rain. How cliché.
I heard people’s stories are hidden in raindrops. But people’s stories are usually uninteresting. They’re born, they live, they die. But some people die, but still go on living. Those are the rare people with the rarest personality type, the introverts, the judging. I’ve never understood it. It’s like a plague, an internal one that makes me more and more isolated. But no matter what, it never makes me forget. I think I might try and live, forgetting that I’ve already died once before. There’s still something left in me, things that will carry me on. After all, living ghosts float. Me? I float on the hard things like broken love, shattered hearts, loneliness, and regret.
That’s all he used to say. Of course, he said a great many things, mostly quotes that are not well known, and also things I don’t remember. As a matter of fact, it’s been so long, almost a year, that’s I’ve forgotten the exact symmetry of his face, as I knew so well a long time ago. I used to dream about him every night, terrific dreams. But after that day, the dreams began to lessen, and the colours in his face began to fade, and altogether, after a prolonged period of black and white, blurry dreams, he disappeared completely from my life. I hate to admit it, but I had forgotten all about him. Friends, happiness, and life filled my existence and little by little, Sam, my very best friend (as he once was) was nothing more than a faint and fading memory, just like stories fading to legends. He was silent… until now
