dog days
i'm done with "trails, wagon roads, and city streets" --- sent it to ms kidd and am ready to throw it out on atlanta magazine's stoop and see if the cat licks it up
Posted by tomitron at 7/30/2019 06:44:00 PM 1 comments
Posted by tomitron at 7/29/2019 08:35:00 PM 0 comments
Posted by tomitron at 7/26/2019 10:25:00 PM 0 comments
Posted by tomitron at 7/25/2019 08:21:00 PM 1 comments
Posted by tomitron at 7/21/2019 05:25:00 PM 0 comments
I'm waiting for a boat to help me out of here
Waiting for a boat to help me out
The boat that reached my shore was a toy boat
Waiting for a boat to help me out
I'm dreaming of a lake I've never seen before
Dreaming of a lake I've never seen
The lake I've seen last was a picture lake
Dreaming of a lake I've never seen
You who are
You who are
Help me out, help me out
Help me out of here
I'm thinking of a castle on atop a hill
Thinking of a castle on atop a hill
The castle I've been to was full of flies
Thinking of a castle on atop a hill
You who are
You who are
Help me out, help me out
Help me out of here
Posted by tomitron at 7/19/2019 10:59:00 PM 1 comments
Posted by tomitron at 7/19/2019 11:29:00 AM 2 comments
Posted by tomitron at 7/18/2019 04:39:00 PM 1 comments
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Posted by tomitron at 7/16/2019 09:02:00 PM 1 comments
Posted by tomitron at 7/16/2019 04:00:00 PM 1 comments
Posted by tomitron at 7/15/2019 06:54:00 PM 1 comments
Posted by tomitron at 7/11/2019 10:39:00 PM 0 comments
Posted by tomitron at 7/11/2019 05:11:00 PM 1 comments
Posted by tomitron at 7/09/2019 09:41:00 PM 0 comments
Posted by tomitron at 7/04/2019 10:35:00 PM 1 comments
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