Dispair not, you took the road less traveled and now you don't know where the heck you are. Make home here and start over.
Over, hell, it's harder now that it's over, now that the cuffs are off and you're free, free with a history. But the end of the Eurovision song contest always leaves on feeling this way.
the Nomad's vision of home; belonging to the stars.
(That's beautiful, Bo.)
Stars pallid with night flush the land below them. They are grazed by the wind.
I'm thinking of buying a wombat. I wonder if gus knows a salesman.
do you wish to collect guanno, or play baseball?
dròm_et_rêve wrote:.....Stars pallid with night flush the land below them. They are grazed by the wind.
very nice Drom; [but disturbingly devoid of respect for physics :wink: ]
Baseball playing wombats? Well, there's a niche for everything.
Hey i'll take your poetic licentiousness any time, and practice suspension of disbelief!
Disbelief of irrational metaphors can reduce poetry to banality.
Feel what you like, banality is a concrete measurable quality, like beauty. Or so certain philosophers would have us believe.
Believe in that I don't. Banality is in the eye of the beholder.
beholder, or let her go, it is a choice, just make sure she has time alone when she is in need.
Need I engage with that conversation? I think it's time we talked about art.
Art, with a little Q. That's what modern Art seems to be about.
About time modern art was exposed as the fraud it is. Who wants to buy, own or view an unmade bed?
Bed time is anytime you want to take an nice long needed nap.
Nap on the ground of the Tate Modern, and who knows what can end up on you. I wouldn't like to discover.
.