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Rolling [Aug. 6th, 2006|04:14 am]
Rolling thunder from a starry sky, and lightning now. Perhaps I will be struck and make a quick end. Earlier I was thinking of the years when there were many cats here, and I would see them emerging from the darkness, home from their hunts, eyes glinting. It was better then. Lightning is good, but I want no fires. I'm in no condition for fleeing. A quick, clean kill.

Sunday Verse

Sonnet 73

William Shakespeare

That time of year thou mayst in me behold	
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang	
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,	
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.	
In me thou seest the twilight of such day	
As after sunset fadeth in the west,	
Which by and by black night doth take away,	
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.	
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire	
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,	
As the death-bed whereon it must expire	
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.	
  This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,	
  To love that well which thou must leave ere long.