Morning found us calmly unaware,
Noon burn gold into our hair,
At night, we swim the laughin' sea,
When summer's gone,
Where will we be?
Summer's almost gone...
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Still In The Game?
Why does it seem like such a dispersion to write to oneself? Yet it happens and happens again? Well trying to keep a conversation of one going is odd at best. Yet while one persists... so does discursive thought.
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