November 27th, 2011
kvitsh
Will Wordsworth then perhaps stayed looking at the dancing flames of daffodils so long that long after, often, unbidden, they come to him, like a sister or a wife bringing lines of verse upon a platter that holds both tea and a template of the universe.
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Misanthropic wench kicking at the darkness 'till it bleeds daylight. I take pictures and play ukulele.