On the way home, heaven lover you’ll encounter a juvenile flower do not hold it, for it will crumble just behold it and it will double. Next thing you know a field will grow repeating mirror images ablossom, infinite beauty, sown in the abyss of your deceasing eyes.
Pick up, fear. Pick up and come here. Pick the pace up a gear, clearly I’m in it but uncommitted, long as you live I fear for thee, commit my suicide for me. For I can’t unrationalize thy passionate cries, and fore the knife takes arms against life, against the harm I had, my mind […]
A city is a place Where one can’t scream in peace.
This is as much for my own reference, to return to and finish reading later, as it is for anyone interested in this small roll I’m on with classicism. T.S. Eliot’s “Tradition and the Individual Talent”
Laver may be the greatest,The historians opine,Sampras may be the greatest,The winners opine,Federer may be the greatest,The perfectionists opine,Nadal may be the greatest,The athletes opine,Djokovic may be the greatest,The rankings opine,But when I hit that winner up the line,I, I, was the greatest of all time. [dated February 2011]