why is it this poem always makes me think of that one day I was
hunting, or was it just walking, through the graphite mines in
Chester Springs? Was it New Year's Day? Why do I think of that
overcast crisp, grey hopeful unresolved feeling, crunching something
underfoot, not know what this place was about?
"A man's intelligence is his soil." - WS "A truth that's told with bad intent beats all the lies you can invent" - WB "Truth can never be told so as to be understood, and not be believ'd" -WB "The Sun must bear no name, gold flourisher, but be in the difficulty that it is to be." - WS
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if I'm only motivated to act by adrenaline, by the sense of a deadline, or perhaps the ultimate deadline, which is death, and that simpl...
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Don't a be a hyena. A snickering wound licking scampering opinionator.
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