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on the surface again, with a job to do

1 April, 2018
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Let them have what was under the water. What lived in Venice was still afloat.

—from Venice Drowned by Kim Stanley Robinson —

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no one told you when to run

9 March, 2018

I’m going to watch the bluebirds fly over my shoulder

I’m going to watch them pass me by, maybe when I’m older

every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time;

plans that either come to naught, or half a page of scribbled lines

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.

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.