where do we go from here, my friend?
"What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow/Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,/You cannot say, or guess, for you know only/A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,/And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,/And the dry stone no sound of water. Only/There is shadow under this red rock,/(Come in under the shadow of this red rock,/ And I will show you something different from either/Your shadow at morning striding behind you/Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;/I will show you fear in a handful of dust."
But in her web she still delights/ To weave the mirror's magic sights,/ For often through the silent nights/ A funeral, with plumes and lights/ And music, went to Camelot;/ Or when the Moon was overhead,/ Came two young lovers lately wed./ "I am half sick of shadows," said/ The Lady of Shalott.
"And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,/End in the Nothing all Things end in--Yes-/Then fancy while Thou art, Thou art but what/Thou shalt be--Nothing--Thou shalt not be less."
My First Love: Zero!
Through the Looking Glass
3 comments:
you never get to decide where you go next. you only get to stand in front of the mirror and sing to yourself "its my life" and probably be happy for it.
Scarborough Fair------> This Way. 42 Miles.
uff. ki marattok.
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