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2008-12-28 - 5:33 p.m.

thick fog over snowmelt

there's an implacable wind rushing in through the trees. everything is blue in this light.

* * *

'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
They called me the hyacinth girl.'
Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.

t.s. eliot, "the wasteland" (1922)

* * *


listening to: the depreciation guild - digital solace.
reading: lois mcmaster bujold. the vor game. in the bathtub.
working on: putting one foot in front of the other.


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