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I slept through the night, I got through to the dawn

2 January, 2018
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Though much is taken, much abides; and though

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time, but strong enough in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

— from Ulysses by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

I wrote down my dream, I made it this song

It was a pretty good day so far

Hello, 2018.

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behind brown and mild eyes

31 December, 2017
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I guess it comes down to a simple choice, really.

Get busy living, or get busy dying.

I wish that I was bulletproof

25 December, 2017
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Mostly I remember the last one. The wow finish. A guy standing on a station platform in the rain with a comical look in his face because his insides have been kicked out.

You want to feel sorry for yourself, don’t you? With so much at stake, all you can think of is your own feeling.

the judges will decide; the likes of me abide

10 December, 2017

And there’s a lifeline slipping as the record plays

nothing more to say

no more ace to play

il faut oublier tout peut s’oublier

8 December, 2017
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cette chanson, c’est l’histoire d’un con et d’un raté — Jacques Brel.

Does such a thing as ‘the fatal flaw,’ that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside literature? I used to think it didn’t. Now I think it does. And I think that mine is this: a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs. — from The Secret History by Donna Tartt.

On n’est jamais si malheureux qu’on croit ni si heureux qu’on avait espéré — from the Maxims of La Rochefoucauld.

It don’t snow here, it stays pretty green

23 November, 2017
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When I’m a good dog, they sometimes throw me a bone in

Forgive and forget’s what they teach

They’re putting up reindeer, and singing songs of joy and peace

in derelict sidings, the poppies entwine

11 November, 2017

He thought how ‘Jack’, cold-footed, useless swine,

Had panicked down the trench that night the mine

Went up at Wicked Corner; how he’d tried

To get sent home, and how, at last, he died,

Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care

Except that lonely woman with white hair.

— from The Hero by Siegfried Sassoon—