Metamorphose

METAMORPHOSE

I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame the earth seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy the air, look you, this mighty o'rehanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire; why, it appeareth nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, how like an angel in apprehension, how like a God! The beauty of the world, paragon of animals; and yet to me, what is this quintessence of dusk. Man delights not me, no, nor women neither, nor women neither.

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Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Triannual cough

We write to think about an experience which may or may not effect us. The outcome is the transition of brain to fingers or ink to paper. That process may decide on the fluidity of if the statement remains true to the writer or the reader. (3 years and that's all I've got after 5 minutes) lol :)

LS at 11/13/2012 10:27:00 PM

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