“Like a drunk in a midnight choir, I have tried, in my way, to be free.” L. Cohen.
Drinking water as though it were sunlight
she wonders if she will feel brighter soon.
Watching the sun dropping as though it were rain
she paints streaks of purple to stain the sky.
“For Whom the Bell Tolls” made me sad.
This is the epigraph that precedes the book:
“No man is an Iland, intire of it selfe; every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the main: if a Clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as well as if a Mannor of thy friends or of thine owne were; any mans death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.”
- John Donne
Now I should really go running so that I can get back and eat something. POUND COFFEE at 3:30. If you’re my real friend, you’ll meet me there.
“Uh, hold on. I found something I need to tweet.”
“What! How did I lose five followers over night? Why do these people hate me?”
“You are my thought process of epic.”