|
I wish I knew. I feel strange this week. I was supposed to send T an update but I have no idea... I see him in the morning and I really want to go, but I have no idea how I'm going to get this out of me, whatever this is...
__________________
'...
At poor peace I sing
To you strangers (though song
Is a burning and crested act,
The fire of birds in
The world's turning wood,
For my sawn, splay sounds,)
...'
Dylan Thomas, Author's Prologue
|