SR&Company

s e i c h t

About starving for irrelevance,
for shallowness and void.
About seeping away in evanescence;
and about the depths remaining avoid'.

The hurt is relentless,
the hurt of emptiness,
the hurt of missing.

You know those nights,
when you're sleeping,
and it's totally dark,
and absolutely silent,
and you don't dream,
and there's only blackness,
and this is the reason;
it's because on those nights
you've gone away,
on those nights
you're in someone else's dream,
you're busy in someone else's dream;
some things are just pictures,
they're scenes before your eyes,
don't look now,
I'm right behind you.

L a u r i e A n d e r s o n

LA GRANDE AMBITION DES FEMMES
EST D'INSPIRER L'AMOUR.
M o l i è r e

Little things I should have said and done,
I just never took the time.

Stabat Mater dolorosa
The grieving Mother stood weeping
Quis est homo, qui non fleret
Who is he that would not weep
Quis non posset contristari
Who would not share the sorrow,
dolentum cum filio
of her suffering with her Son.
Face me plagis vulnerari
Let me be wounded with in the wounds.

Je lutte et je me débats
I struggle and I fight
Et je crie de douleur, de fureur et de rage et je pleure
And I shout in pain, in fury and in rage and I cry
Emportés par la foule qui nous traîne, nous entraîne
Taken by the crowd that tears us off,
Qui me vole, qu’elle m’avait donné et que je n’ai jamais retrouvé.
which steals from me, what it had given me and what I will never retrieve.

An entirely personal, assumed haven,
a shelter,
a piece of home we are deeply ingrained in,
an atavism we are grown together with,
remembrance and longing.

To what extent this piece of ground means freedom? It is our allod.
This far and no further.
Setting boundaries in the hope that there is nobody to outrun them.
Boundaries between oneself and the world.
Boundaries between people.
Closeness and distance.
Home and outland.
Boundaries of one's own capacity.
Boundaries do not keep out men.
Maybe they confine ourselves?
An unseen wall of protection or isolation?
Closeness is equally longed for and feared,
is equally hard to live with and to do without.
We need roots and wings.
Wings to aspire beyond boundaries.
Roots to have both feet planted firmly on the ground, to have a foothold, to be able to come back.

compulsion

I am afraid of suffocation,
of constriction, of absorption,
afraid of losing control - of myself.

I am not confident anymore,
unable to confide - me.
I cannot help it, cannot control myself,
losing my self-control,
I am losing - myself.

I am longing for a good day,
for assurance, for order and structure,
longing for relief, for my salvation.

again and again repeating the same procedure,
to be assured,
to regain control,
to hold on to before I lose - myself.

William Shakespeare's Sonnets
Released in 1609.

A diction of timeless aesthetic, intensity and expression,
set to music by Hallam London,
set to dance by SR&Company,
until the 20th century present in mind and contemporary.

34 Why Promis?
35 No More Be Grieved
70 Kingdoms Of Hearts
97 Winter Part 1
98 Winter Part 2
126 My Lovely Boy
129 Waste Of Shame

I am none but one of your quite humble,
who looks into life out of a cell,
and who, further from men than things,
does not dare to consider what is done.
But want me face your countenance,
from where your eyes stand out darkly,
then do not regard it as my haughtiness,
by telling you: nobody lives his life.
Coincidences are men, voices, pieces,
dayly lives, fears, many little strokes of luck,
already dressed up when children, muffled,
as masks mature, as faces - dumb.

I often think: treasure houses have to be,
where all these many lives lie about
like tanks or litters or cradles,
into which never a real one climbed,
And like robes, which all by themselves
cannot stand up and in falling snuggle
to strong walls of vaulted stone.

And if all eve I just walk on and on,
out of my garden, inside I am tired,
I know: then all roads lead up
to the arsenal of lifeless things.
There is no tree, as if the land lays down,
and prison-wise hangs down the wall
quite windowless in seven times the ring.
and its gates with the iron bolts,
that stand against those, who are longing there,
and its bars are by the hand of man.

Rainer Maria Rilke