Each of us is all the sums he has not counted: subtract us into nakedness and night again, and you shall see begin in Crete four thousand years ago the love that ended yesterday in Texas.
The seed of our destruction will blossom in the desert, the alexin of our cure grows by a mountain rock, and our lives are haunted by a Georgia slattern, because a London cutpurse went unhung. Each moment is the fruit of forty thousand years. The minute-winning days, like flies, buzz home to death, and every moment is a window on all time.
john northbrooke, c. 1570
1 comment:
One of the best things I ever did was resarch for and the actual conduction of a tour of Portman's weird-but-at-times inspirational complex at PT-Center. We ended up at the rotating Sundial on top of the Westin. It was great. Looking over Atlanta from a tall building is sometimes better than being on the ground.
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