e., you wrote at your website:
>is the bird heaven borne or burning the night echos with the speak
>of cloven tongues, the temperate sighs (oh) (ah) pace patiently
>threading with light spokes, winging with tight strokes, across blue
>space blowing little winds into spires of dust
>a hope in a dog's eye, with the rope burns fresh on its neck
This does a little something to my soul. Of course it's so Beckettian
in tone -- I hope you don't mind me saying that (to me, that means it's
godlike). But oddly, it does a little something to me like when I was
reading Candide. All you've been through in your flea-infested
adventure in loving real people face to face, betrayals and pointlessness
and all . . . bringing fresh sting to Voltaire's politely scabrous
of the silly horror of all and all prattling about our time, anyone's time,
being 'the best of all possible worlds.'
And yet the beauty, still. Wow.
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