rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Strangely Enough

The rain didn't start until after I got back from Safeway, but before I had a chance to walk over to the Plaza. The mild is getting a bit old, so I might find it unpalatable tomorrow, when I will also be out of donuts, which I'd intended to buy at Safeway but forgot. It isn't raining right now, but will probably start up again later and might continue for quote a while tomorrow. I'm fuzz-brained again and wearing a hoodie even though the thermometer says it is 72 degrees in here. I still feel chilly. I think the device might need re-calibrating.

All that is neither here nor there, probably, though I can't say for certain since I have no idea where there is, and I'm not convinced that here is even real. I'm just in a mood. Whether or not it is big mood I don't know. I know very little other than that I have more bowls of instant Asian noodle soups, some other stuff, and about twenty dollars less than I had before I went shopping. For the time being I suppose I don't need to know more. It would be nice if I did know more, though.

There's a good chance I'm going to go eat something now, then read for a while. It's very chilly outside and damp, and when I go out I have to wear a jacket, over the hoodie. It delights me that this foretaste of winter has come along. It's still supposed to re-warm starting Tuesday, and get downright hot again over the weekend. No more rain is in the long range forecast, which is a bit disappointing. I intend to enjoy it while it lasts, but I still hope I don't have to go out in it to fetch fresh milk and donuts.

And now or something completely unrelated.

Sunday Verse


by Charles Baudelaire

Be tranquil, O my Sorrow, and be wise.
The Evening comes, is here, for which you sought:
The Dusk, wrapping the city in disguise,
Care unto some, to others peace has brought.

Now while the sordid multitude with shame
Obeying Pleasure's whip and merciless sway,
Go gathering remorse in servile game,
Give me your hand, my Sorrow, come this way,

Far from them. See the years in ancient dress
Along the balconies of heaven press,
Smiling Regret from deepest waters rise;

Beneath an arch the old Sun goes to bed,
And like a winding-sheet across the skies,
Hear, my Beloved, hear the sweet Night tread.

translated by Barbara Gibbs

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