Sunday, 22 August 2010

Early Train

Tomorrow I fly up to Maine. It's my first flight this year. Kind of excited about that, actually. I enjoy flying. The airports still have a little bit of a worry feeling with me, but after the security is over, I sit back and enjoy the walking, sitting, eye-shopping, and thinking. I get to check off Laguardia in New York, too; Atlanta is my first layover, but I've been there before, so nothing new there.

Probably, I'll be offline for the next two weeks, which is good. I like being offline when I can. I feel somewhat responsible to keep up with things when I'm home, but it's a relief to just forget about worries and cares in another place.

It's nearly 2:00, and I'm getting up at 7:30. I have to finish packing and make sure everything is set for my family with the pets and other things. It's been a little over a year now since I was in Maine last, and I miss it...though, I feel different this year than last. A little less whole; a little more cynical (realistic, maybe) about parts of the world, a little more painfully wise, and a little more older. If I can't go to college, I guess I'll have to make up for it by making money at home and travelling in the next year. Let the plans begin, then, I say.

It's funny...not funny in "oh, that's humorous" sort of way, but funny as in, "that's odd, I don't understand that in all loo, no how" way. It's funny, having huge changes come to your life and finding yourself bumbling along with no idea what to do, no idea where to go, and no idea what's going to happen.

And with that thought, I think I'll leave you all hanging, cause my eyelids are about finished for tonight.
Dear Jesus:

I don't always understand what's going on
But I'm sure that you've got a plan
And when things go bad, and when things go wrong
It's a comfort to know that the end
Will always be what's best for me
Though I can't see
What that might be
Or where my life is headed.
I heard in a sermon about the pain
You underwent, again and again
Just to take away my sin
And save me from the life I'm in
I sometimes wish I could repay
All the sins you took away
The best I can do is live for Him
And serve with everything I am


Saturday, 21 August 2010

It's About Time


So, I think it's time to write something that isn't "poetry" (i.e. has no rhyme, metre, or verse). Is it safe to do so? Will I say something that comes off completely wrong? Honestly, I haven't the foggiest. Of course I'm not going to try to be misunderstood; I don't seek conflict out. It does have a funny way of finding me, though, and I have the worst knack for getting in trouble via misunderstanding ever.

Heavens above, I can't believe
What on earth is happening to me?
I thought I knew, but it's not true
I'm just headed for a cliff and I'm trying to run,
But the wind it's pushing me and sometime soon
I'm just going to fall.

I tried to resist, but the rhyme sucked me in
And now I'm writing poetry again
It's got rhyme, and it's got verse,
Though for a poem it might be my worst
All the same, it's easier to say
What's on my mind, what I've thought today
By writing it like poetry.

I feel one way, I get pulled another
It's getting tiring, this "not one way or the other"
I want to know what I have to do,
I want a plan that I know is true
I'm so sick of having all my schemes
Turned inside out by false opportunities

I'm not going to college, I'm staying here
But I'd rather be almost anywhere
Not because I don't like my home
But I can hear it calling me, and it says, "Roam"

I'm torn between wanting what's in the past
And looking ahead, past what's been lost
I can't stand the thought of another day
Hovering without a word to say
Whether I want to head up north,
Or whether it's south I'll be looking towards

Do you know the feeling? I wish you could
It's a terrible feeling, a feeling that should
Be reserved for only those metaphorically blind
Lost in the land, the land without time
Now I'm just rhyming with nothing to say
But I can't stand these missed opportunities
Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever give up
On what I almost had, but now has slipped
Out of my fingers, without my will
It's making me crazy, it's making me ill
I'm sounding a little like Dr. Seuss
If I wasn't so dark, I could be Mother Goose
The truth is, friend, I just want somebody
I can trust, I can love, who can be my buddy
And yes, I hate that word I've just used,
But I couldn't think of anything else to do
Body rhymes with body, but that won't work
And all my other options made me even more of a dork
This verse is getting long, but I'm scared to break it
I'm tense and I'm hurt and I'm not gonna make it

Don't get the wrong impression from this poem of mine
I'm just relieving my stress, clearing my mind
I thought I could do it by writing prose,
But I'm sick of all the words that I wanted to use
So I slipped into this, and now you've got
What I decided to write, but wanted to not

I feel a little lonely, down here in Carolina
All my friends are gone or left me, and I think I'm dyin'
I'll live, I'll survive, I might even thrive
Don't worry about this last one, I just had to make it rhyme
Now I'll leave you standing, and maybe wondering
"What in the world did he mean in his thing?
"Was he trying to tell us all something profound?
"Or was it just a mess of words he's throwing around?"
The answer, guys, is simple: I'm just exercising
You should try it some time, it's really quite reviving

Thursday, 19 August 2010

The Lie

Frightened because of a lie you've told
Scared to run, so the lie gets retold
You've told it so often, the lie's getting old
But you can't seem to stop it from living.
It eats like a cancer, it eats like a worm
You cower in darkness, you squeal and you squirm
Its glittering eyes and vengeful teeth,
Too hideous to describe, they eat
Anything true, anything bright,
You've got to get out of the dark into light
But the lie that you've told, it won't let go
You try and you try but never, oh no
It's pulling you down to a place you hate
This lie that you've told, it sinks like a weight
Of a thousand millstones, heavy and cold
The lie that's been told, told and retold
Where is the freedom you've been wanting to find?
It seems out of reach, the lie says, "You're Mine!"
But just when you feel you'll never get out
You see a great light, you hear a great shout
And angels are standing by thousands about
With bright flaming swords that never go out
"We come on behalf of our king," they cry
And the chains that have held you, those chains of the lie
Fall off in pieces, because of the light
Of the king who descended in glory and might
And has rescued you now from the lie.

Wednesday, 18 August 2010


Living divided,
So undecided
Unable to know
Where you want to go
Wanting to hope,
Trying to cope,
Moving on while looking back

Knowing you shouldn't,
Feeling you couldn't
Even if you wanted
Repeating your lines
And childish rhymes
Living as if undaunted

The reality is
You have to live
Looking forward
Or looking back

Take the road,
Choose a sign
Head for home,
Follow the line
You're finished here
What happens next is up to you

If life comes circle
You'll be ready
Live your path,
Keep your feet steady
It's only a matter of time
Before you've found
What everyone wants
And everyone needs

Tuesday, 17 August 2010

Speed of Sight

It was only in a moment,
The speed of sight and I was finished
You were standing there in front of me
I was kneeling on the ground
Maybe only mentally,
Maybe only partially
In time it turned out all too true
Our lives weren't made for me and you

By the speed of sight I was yours
In my head I was still alive,
In my heart, lost in a forest
You're my only burning drive
In my head, I hear you sing
In my heart the phone still rings
And I hope and pray it's you,
But it's not true,
You're gone from me,
I won't look back
It's the memory
Of what we had, but gave away
And now there's nothing left.

I didn't sit down to cry,
Or write a broken love song
I just wanted to try
To say what's still inside
But then again, I'm not sure
Now you're gone and I'm still here
I have to find my way in life
With or without you by my side
And if it's God's will no me and you,
Who am I to step aside
From what's ahead, and what's in front
It's time to stand, however much
I'd rather not, but feel your touch
In my arms just now.

I'm sick, I'm dying, but only half
The other part is moving on
Not out of will or peace
But only by necessity
I'm on a train, it's called My Life
It doesn't stop for passengers
If you jump, you're lost for good
From this part of the scenery
I wish it didn't have to be,
But sometimes we can only try
And when that's done, O you and I,
Are needy for a change.

My heart got lost in the speed of sight
You were the day, I was the night
I thought we were made together
In love since before, and till forever
But I was wrong, or so it seems
And though you're the girl of my dreams
Sometimes we have to face up to
The fact we've got to wake up new.

It's not that I'm done, or finished inside
But things are different, they have to be
You've pulled the plug on what we had
And that's okay, but I'm still sad
I miss you a little every day,
And sometimes I wish there was a way
To change what happened to what we wanted
But we've said goodbye, our hearts have parted
And though I was lost in the speed of sight,
As time goes on, sight's not as bright
As it used to be, when we were young
And love was new, and nothing was wrong


So, I've decided to make a realistic list of the things I want to accomplish in the next year. This doesn't include earning money or doing the practical and necessary things everyone must do before heading to university. This is a list of the things that I want to do that will either be fun or exciting, or help me become a better person.

Retake Irish Rosetta Stone. I took it once, but to solidify some things, I'm going through it again.

Make a book tour of the east coast. This is something I'm planning for late Autumn/Winter or next Spring. I'll be heading up through VA, NJ, PA, NY, maybe all the way up to ME, hitting all the states I can.

Finish at least two more novels. I'm working on several things right now. It would be my hope to get two projects at least at first-draught completion.

Read at least twenty new books. I haven't done enough reading the past year. I'd like to fix that.

On a similar note, I'd like to purchase and read the list of books I got from my professor for Lampeter. There's quite a number of books on history and Mediaeval Culture that, in addition to the books referenced above, I would like to read.

There are lots more things. I'll add as I think of them.

Monday, 16 August 2010

If I Can't Love Her

There's a song in Beauty and the Beast the Broadway Musical that is simply stunning. Look it up.

Sunday, 15 August 2010

The Things We Tell Ourselves

When what we want is what we see
Our vision slowly blurs
And sometimes then, we do believe
The truth belongs to us
To do with as we ever please
Turn inside out or upside down
But always the reality
Is now we've all 'come blind.

A vision of the truth we seek
So hard it appears before us
But worse than a mirage for we
Can live long without knowing
That what we've built a world around
Is really nothing more
Than a dusty square of broken ground
And the key to a broken door.

Is what we want determined by
The world that we can see?
Or have we both, you and I
Seen only what we need?
We hunger after anything
And turn our world to fit the dream
Into a box of our own making
That follows what we deem should be.

And then we lose all we wanted
And clear our vision is
And we know then, our dream was wasted
On a world that shouldn't have been.
It was all a farce, a whole facade
Based on selfish wishes
The signs were there to turn away
But we didn't want to see them.

Is it often that this happens, then?
Or only once a while?
I'm not sure I can answer that,
Our lives so full of guile
We deceive ourselves front and back
Won't let what really is
Determine how we look at life
And mind our businesses.

If only we would ope' our eyes,
The facts are all before us
Let go all meddling and disguise
Unhindered truth consume us
Of all the things I've done because
I thought the signs were there
The worst of all of them it was
To think I knew the future.

Saturday, 14 August 2010

"So you were saying..."

Finding is really only a little of it; it's the losing we consider most.

In dreams, we run from what we think is life. In life, we run from what we wished were dreams.

Gold and silver are worth what they are worth; there's no exchange rate with the currency of love.

Other emotions can be felt and seen and heard. Love is known.

To understand is to give yourself to something else. How blessed to understand a human being.

Those who must ask, "What time is it?" are only a little better than those who know the answer.

We enslave ourselves to what we claim to conquer. Time and money are our air and water.

Heaven will feel like music; but music will feel differently then.

Night comes slow and long to those who await it. To the sleeper, it is there and gone.

Friday, 13 August 2010

Fields of Gold

"He stopped, thinking then on a day years behind them. There had been a sun then, in the sky, made of orange and gold; and clouds, too, he recalled, laden with mist. They had made a promise there, and he believed it, and so did she. But that was before the days without the sun. Years had passed, since the day they ran laughing through fields of golden grain, barley stalks heavy to fall, ripe and bursting with life, even as they had been. There had been love in the world, and little had they to do with anything else. Strange, how the mind, when turning to glance backward at the past, sees only that which is most pleasant in the memory of that it aches to find in the present. Lovers, they were; lovers of sunshine and laughing rain, of running with the deer in the forest as the dawn rises kingly in front, the night fleeing behind them. So much had been in reach, when together was now; now the sun was gone, and only cold moonlight remained. Shadows, everything had become; shadows of sadness, emotions wispy as dry grass, pale in comparison with what had once passed between them. And he knew that love was more than an emotion. Hatred can be felt and no longer felt, as can happiness; sadness can be and cannot be, as can fear. Love Is."

-Inspired by Sting's Fields of Gold ©2010 J. William English

Wasted Love?

I've heard people talk about wasted love
And wondered to myself, heavens above
How can such a beautiful thing
Ever be wasted on anything?

They say it's dog eat dog in a man's world
I say love sweet love is all you need
Give and take and take some more,
That's not the way to live and breathe
I'll throw that saying out the door
And walk away to love some more

Even in rejection, love
Is never given wastefully
Even when it's ne'er returned,
Love can still be beautiful

Open up, don't hold back
It's love that sets you free
Never mind what happens next
Just love for eternity.

Thursday, 12 August 2010

The Meadowlark

There's a finger in the wind,
Tracing soft across my face
I wonder where I've been
Can't seem to remember this place

It's almost half-familiar,
Not quite a full memory
But if I could count quintillion
Maybe then I'd be able to see

It's all the sound of a meadowlark,
All a birdsong in the end
Hark, hark, to the meadowlark
Don't be afraid to mend

A broken heart is only half
But half is better than none
A frown is only a wrongside laugh
Don't give up, you're not yet done

There's more to do, dear meadowlark
More to find, dear friend
Don't cry, dear meadowlark,
Don't be afraid to bend

Stringing along a broken toy
Following an overgrown path
Turning grown men back into boys
Oblivious to all of divine wrath

Sweet, sweet the meadowlark,
Winding the path you wend
You're all alone, dear meadowlark
Don't be afraid to 'fend

It's all dark in the meadow now
The lark has gone to bed
In the silence hangs the question: how
With so much in her head

Sleep, sleep now the meadowlark
To the world of dreams now send
All your thoughts, dear meadowlark
It all has come to an end.

Wednesday, 11 August 2010

Name Changing

It's a name-change I'm considering
Something new and different—definitely
But what quite yet I've not decided,
Maybe never will.

Might colour up my hair,
Turn it light or even fair
Green or purple, I don't care
So long as it's a change.

I've got to get out of this sameness
I'm hurtling into insaneness
I can't take any more of this brainwash
I'm going like a shooting star

A travelling man I'm becoming
Restless and eternally wand'ring
If I'm not walking I'm running
Away from everything I know

It's not an escape that I'm seeking
It's an outlet for life that I'm needing
My mind isn't gone only leaking
I'm just trying to stop the drip

So I'm gonna change my name
Switch things up, make nothing the same
Wander the earth, gathering fame
Till I find what I'm looking for

It's not a new permanent moniker
It's something more, even better
The root of a new identity
Growing into my branch

It's not that I'm looking blindly
It's just all the factors, mainly
And the most problematic is Timely
Let's wait for the clock to tick

It might happen any day now,
Could be a storm, could be a rainbow
Even stumbling over my shadow
But when I see it, then I'll know
And then I'll stay, no more no go
Rain, wind, shine and snow
It's it's my home.

The Metaphor

Shadows dripping off the walls
Cover the stains from long ago
Filling all the tidal pools
With metaphoric blood

Singing, driven acid rain
Splashing in uneven train
Along a brand new river bed
Squelching all our dreams

Roguish, wild, fiery charm
Drawing what is hidden in
Calling to both free and bound
"Don't let the sinners in"

What we've got and what we've not
Hope in every kindred thought
Putting faith in long-dead ashes:
Renew a dying love

Stopping, trembling on the edge
The cliffs of bitter wilderness
Below, a pile of dusty bones
Death is our best escape

Reaching for a broken cross
Clinging still to what we've lost
It's only when we've all let go
We find what's really there.

Monday, 9 August 2010

The Life and Times of Vegetarian Haggis

Another avant-garde-esque title, or an aspiring one, and once again, no meaning behind it save for it's randomicity, which is plenty of meaning-without-meaning if you ask me.

While I've written my share of articles, poetry, novels, and short stories for my age, I have to say I find the satisfaction counter when it comes to articles to be low, while poetry, novels, and in some ways short stories, are at a height no article can aspire to. Not only are they less enjoyable to read, you finish them and feel no emotional sacrifice. The article I've just written below is one of those things. I come off it feeling like I haven't explained myself very well, and therefore wasted my time, words, and your time; or I feel like I got my point across, but the point seems very dull and unimportant.

Not that it's usually very good, but at least on an aesthetic level, I can usually come up with a few good lines of verse or poetry, with a few strange metaphors thrown in for good measure. That has more satisfaction, because it seems more appealing and fulfilling to the public eye.

Does this mean I'm ruled by the public? Or what I think the public (har har, all fifteen of them publics) want?

I wrote a very simple, and really very poor rhyme about Mary Queen of Scots. She's my favourite historical heroine of all time, and I greatly respect and admire her. The rhyme?

"Poor Mary, who loved
too freely for good,
Was used and abused
by the men of the world,
And killed innocently
by a cousin of blood,
She'll live in my mem'ry
as truly she should."

Then, in an even worse attempt, I wrote this jewel of literary loo:

Her mother was a queen frae France
her father James V.
She grew up and was soon orphaned
and shipped off far away.
When she came back she was 18
and already a widow;
It wasn't long till she fell in love
and then she had a baby.
Scotland rose against her then,
and she was forced to flee.
They locked her up, she tried to run
but then it was too late.
Her cousin foul with heart of stone
had her taken care of:
She braved the block, not 40 years old,
and woke up next in Heaven.


Tattooing in the Dark

I wanted something avant-garde for the title, something wild and deliciously mysterious; yeah, that's what I came up with. In any case, on to the subject at hand.

I won't deny I had this thought put in my head from a friend who asked me a question just recently, but it's something I've thought about a lot, and maybe even written about before too, though not here.

Whether people ask this question frequently or not, I think they often wonder it about writers, or any "artist" who creates, and how much of the creation reflects the world they live in, the people they know, the lives they lived, as artists. Being something of an amateur writer, aspiring to someday be something of a professional and maybe even a decent writer, I may or may not have insight into all writers, but the majority, and myself included, fall under a few guidelines.

Because we aren't God, everything we create has a basis in our world. Whether it's a fantasy world in which everything we've built is simply what God made with as many differences as we can imagine, or whether it's characters pieced together from traits we've known, experienced, or sought to dream up. This is true for every writer, every painter, every musician, every filmmaker, every other kind of artist. We cannot create truly original material. God did that when he made the world and all that is in it and all that makes it work, things like the law of gravity. We can invent a world in which the law of gravity has no bearing, but that's only taking off of what God did—because as finite creatures, our minds can't exceed the boundaries of God's creation.

Don't get me wrong, that's not a bad thing, nor detrimental. The writers of the world have survived pretty well for a few thousand years on copycatting God's work, and they've even come up with some interesting stuff. But that's not really the main motive I've got for writing this.

To get a little bit closer to home, take novels written by writers with characters and places that sometimes are very obviously related to the world the writer grew up in. Not our world in general, since everything is directly related to it, but his own personal world: the relationships he had with bosses, family, friends, loved ones in general, etc. My own book, for example, deals with a lot of characters who were heavily inspired by people I know. Even events heavily inspired by things I've been through. For someone, aside from myself, to sift through what is "real" and what is "fictional" is going to be difficult. Even for family members and very close friends. When writers write, they use a portion of the brain most people don't use except for writing or creating. Everyone uses it at one time or another for one thing or another, but artists make using that creative portion into a living. You're reaching down an emotional well, searching for water, and no one, perhaps not even yourself, knows what's down there. (Here I go starting to sound like Inception.)

Everyone draws on their past, their desires, their friends, the people they come in contact with when they write. But the main reason you can never (or very, very rarely) take the fiction as being literal or completely metaphorical (most include partial metaphors) is that the one thing all good writers are good at is fictionalising events, making them good story material, whether they notice it or not. And so even if they were trying to write a complete truth, they couldn't after a point.

To take my book as an example, let's examine the general similarities between my world and the world of the characters. Most of the main characters can be traced in origin in one form or another to a person I know today. Someone I know pretty well, usually. However, what happens is that after a certain point, even when I don't realise it, the character traits and emotions of those people, and the events that govern their lives, become completely fictional. They may stay the people I know for a handful of pages, even a couple chapters. Then, no matter what similarities exist, they become what I call, "real with a very important twist: fictionalisation."

So even though the main characters are people I know, from myself to my best friends, to people I've known since I was only a little kid, even though that's all true, and on one surface level the characters can stay disturbingly close to their inspirations, all at once the events lose all correlation. I neither notice nor care what basis they had in reality; it becomes, at first without realising it, then without caring, a complete fictional "lie".

Maybe this is a long, complicated way to say something I could sum up by stating: no matter how much the characters may seem familiar in my, or any other book, the events of their lives take on a completely fictional reality, one which cannot be trusted to the real world.

It may be disturbing to see yourself in my book or any other book which the author has stolen your personality for a character, but you have to come to terms with the fact that the author is just a thief: all he really wanted was your personality, your character traits, and maybe a single event or two. After that, if you look for meaning in it, you won't find any. As much as we writers like to think that everything we write has some kind of deeper purpose, at least we talk that way anyhow, the fact of the matter is most of it is seat-of-the-pants, whatever pops into your head and sounds like it would make the story exciting. Sound careless? Maybe. Don't believe me? I don't know how else to explain it, and it may be disillusioning when it comes to some of the great writers of the world, and I won't say they didn't have a better grasp of what they were doing and the meaning behind it, but sometimes the moments we want most to take seriously, to find something in, are the moments which were thought of at two o'clock in the morning by a sleepy writer trying to finish his self-assigned chapter so he can go to bed.

Writers really aren't to be trusted. Every once in a while there will be some deep correlation betwixt reality and their created world, the lives in their life and the lives of their characters—but it's all the truth taken and twisted into some malevolent authorial purpose, often so distorted from reality that some of the very opposite things true in our world become false, and the falsehoods we know turn on head into truth.

Friday, 6 August 2010


In the darkness shadows lie,
Telling only to deceive
They whisper promises but I
Close the doorway to perceive
Waiting for the moon to rise
Shedding light on all their lies
Ready for the glow of dawn
That time of day when right turns wrong.

And everything we knew
Newly covered with holy veil
Virgin-pure and undefiled
The truth for all
Without guile

What we've become,
What we are now,
The shadows only little told
Where we go, how we stay
Is told and foretold since yesterday

The lies we listened to in darkness
Turn the world to an abyss
And while we wait for light to shine
We stumble blindly all alone
Reaching for those elephants
We all can see but never know.

Skeletons in all our closets
Dance in the hallway while we sleep
Chanting dark and sombre sonnets
Dancing, dancing as they weep
For all we might have been and known
Had the shadows we outgrown

Monsters evil under our beds
Are only monsters in our heads
For once the light has flickered on
We see them as they truly are:
Sofas, lamp stands, silver gongs
Harmless objects without care

Electric torches scatter all
The spider-shadows on the wall
Enlightening at least a little
All our minds from their great muddle
A muddle of what really is,
Who really died, who really lives

Now we've stepped fully out the shadows
And stand with all the others here
We see the friendly faces clearly
And all our enemies are there
No more hide and no more seek
No more strong and no more meek,
We all can see, we all can know
What is real and what must go
These deceiving thoughts stuck in our heads
Let us not take them up to bed
But lay them here where they can be
Examined by our scrutiny;
And should our verdict then be "false"
Then they will shrivel up like ghosts

The lies in light they all have died,
Wasted away for lack of food
For now we see them as they are
And know them all for what they were.
When trust hast gone, so must the lie
It can't survive, must surely die;
Remember this should all else fade:
A lie's best food is our belief.

Monday, 2 August 2010

It's past one thirty in the morning. Thinking on it, I could probably be asleep in a minute if I tried. But my eyelids aren't drooping, and I'm not sleepy. My mind is wide awake, thinking about everything from plane trips to memories; people to projects. Regina Spektor breathes quirkily-deep lyrics from my speakers, and everyone else in the house should be asleep. I think about the trip I'll take to see my cousin and my mom's side of the family, and I look forward to it with anticipation. I think about a trip I might take in the winter, to Ireland; living on the street, walking where I want to go. Will I do it? I don't really know. But it's fun to dream. Just be careful. Speaking of dreaming, I watched Inception at the cinema. Mind-blowing. I also think about the year I have ahead of me before college. Of course I couldn't really have gone this year if I'd wanted, because I wasn't diligent enough with saving my money, but even though it was my choice to stay home I'm still eager to get on with my education. Not that I can't get educated on my own. But I've always been impatient for the time between times to hurry along. All the same, there's a lot in this year to look forward to. It means I'll get to spend another Thanksgiving with some great people. It means I might go apple picking with the family. It means I'll be around for Christmas. I'll be around to work, to visit my brother in college, to write.

I think I'm getting a little insane. I can see myself beginning to crack. It would be nice to lose myself in study or in writing, or even work or creating things. But I can't. I'm hungry. Hungry, starved, even. I don't even know what to call it, or the source of it, but there's a hunger for something that I'm missing, something that drives me to madness. It's not an explosive madness. Just a quiet, slow slipping out of reality. (I watch too many sci-fi stuff, apparently. Harhar.)

"The quiet, mystic night swallows my aching in obsidian oblivion; a shooting star—a stirring coal: awake, for the morning is near, and clarity is peak as tendrils of light grow like well-watered plants to expose a naked earth, yet uncovered from its slumber, yet unready for the suppressive heat to come." (explain this to me, someone. I don't know what he's saying.)

I told a friend this the other day. I kind of liked it, not because I enjoy this truth, but because I think it's something we should all think about: "Humans are emotionally more durable than they admit; but their ideas and emotions are more fragile than any will acknowledge."

There's that, and of course this one, in closing: "Even the best of us sometimes eat grapefruit."