When you think of't, every day is the "New Year"--cyclic time renders our efforts at defining protraction irrelevant, meaningless. Final analyses; ultimate glory. The disillusionment of self-undone own-dreams.
It snows yet.
and then our exile
Thursday, January 01, 2004 at 11:02 a.m.
Last night searching for something on the web and came across this. Empty words do no justice to what i mean--her thoughts are mine, with the one difference that i am more than hesitent to post any such on the web because of a sense of false privacy. i'm not sure what more i can say--that her every sentance reverberates within, stimulating own reactions of own breath?
When you think of't, every day is the "New Year"--cyclic time renders our efforts at defining protraction irrelevant, meaningless. Final analyses; ultimate glory. The disillusionment of self-undone own-dreams.
It snows yet.
When you think of't, every day is the "New Year"--cyclic time renders our efforts at defining protraction irrelevant, meaningless. Final analyses; ultimate glory. The disillusionment of self-undone own-dreams.
It snows yet.
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