Go up to London, to London, that great City, write, write, write. And behold I writ, and lo a hand was sent to me, and a roll of book was therein, which this fleshly hand would have put wings to, before the time. Whereupon it was snatcht out of my hand, & the Roll thrust into my mouth, and I eat it up, and filled my bowels with it, where it was as bitter as worm-wood; and it lay broiling, and burning in my stomack, till I brought it forth in this forme.
And now I send it flying to thee, with my heart, And all.
1 comment:
Oh, the gods blesssed you that day!
The way even the sun joined in to play, it's just delightful.
imagine if they had all been there, but not you!
well, it would have still happened!
which reminds me, "don't think of a table."
*
(I'm not convinced it's dead, though. It reminds me of how I look in the mornings.)
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