With riddles as black as coals, and answers as invisible as our past, I can only depend upon the crest of the rolling wave I now traversed; a romance worshiped only by the dreamer in us all, a psithurism of trust making its way through the years of our ascension to one day climb above the kaleidoscopic canopy of this mortal coil.
You lived and died alone, especially in fighters. Fighters. Somehow, despite everything, that word had not become sterile. You slipped into the hollow cockpit and strapped and plugged yourself into the machine. The canopy ground shut and sealed you off. Your oxygen, your very breath, you carried into the chilled vacuum, in a steel bottle.
I don't have much time for stories, " Vin said. "Seems that fewer and fewer people do, these days." A canopy kept off the ash, but he seemed unconcerned about the mists. "It makes me wonder what is so alluring about the real world that gives them all such a fetish for it. It's not a very nice place these days.
The sugar maple is remarkable for its clean ankle. The groves of these trees looked like vast forest sheds, their branches stopping short at a uniform height, four or five feet from the ground, like eaves, as if they had been trimmed by art, so that you could look under and through the whole grove with its leafy canopy, as under a tent whose curtain is raised.
Henry David Thoreau
Howl pointed a shaky hand up toward the canopy of his bed. 'That's why I love spiders. 'If at first you don't succeed, try, try, try, again.' I keep trying, ' he said with great sadness. 'But I brought it on myself by making a bargain some years ago, and I know I shall never be able to love anyone properly now.' The water running out of Howl's eyes was definitely tears now.
Diana Wynne Jones
The greatest benefit derived from the study of science is that it lifts you out of and above the littleness of daily trials. We learn to live in the universe as a part of it; we cannot seperate ourselves from it - our every act connects us with it - our every act affects the whole. Standing under the canopy of stars and remembering their presence you could scarcely do a petty deed, or think a wicked thought.
Other factors affecting the '109 as a combat plane include the small cramped cockpit. This is quite a tiring working environment, although the view out (in flight) is better than you might expect; the profuseion of canopy struts is not particularly a problem. In addition to the above the small cockpit makes you feel more a part of the aeroplane.
The moment comes when the great nurse, death, takes a human, the child, by the hand and quietly says, "It is time to go home. Night is coming. It is your bedtime, child of earth. Come; you're tired. Lie down at last in the quiet nursery of nature and sleep. Sleep well. The day is gone. Stars shine in the canopy of eternity."
Joshua L. Liebman
There are no medium-sized trees in the deep forest. There are only the towering ones, whose canopy spreads across the sky. Below, in the gloom, there's light for nothing but mosses and ferns. But when a giant falls, leaving a little space ... then there's a race - between the trees on either side, who want to spread out, and the seedlings below, who race to grow up. Sometimes, you can make your own space.
Light - both physical and moral - was a central concern to the men and women living in the medieval age. They attempted to explore its properties in the colors of a stained glass canopy, in the tenor of a brisk saltarello, in the lilt of a Jongleur's ballad, in the sweet savor of a banqueting table, in the rhapsody of a well planned garden, indeed, in every arena and discipline of life.
Douglas Wilson Douglas Jones
Had the common man in (first century) Palestine thought about it at all, he would have considered the world flat, with land riding on and surrounded by water below and above. Keeping water up there was the 'firmament' - a great, canopy-like dome not too far beyond where birds could fly. Indeed, the firmament had gates for the sun and moon to go through, and through which water fell as rain from the waters above.
Thomas Daniel Nehrer
Comely was the town by the curving river that they dismantled in a year's time. Beautiful was Colleton in her last spring as she flung azaleas like a girl throwing rice at a desperate wedding. In dazzling profusion, Colleton ripened in a gauze of sweet gardens and the town ached beneath a canopy of promissory fragrance.
A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, Dirty and dusty, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy; A huge, dun cupola, like a fools-cap crown On a fool's head - and there is London Town.
I humbly thank the gods benign, For all the blessings that are mine... The morning drips her dew for me, Noon spreads an opal canopy. Home-bound, the drifting cloud-crafts rest Where sunset ambers all the west; Soft o'er the poppy-fields of sleep, The drowsy winds of dreamland creep. What idle things are wealth and fame Beside the treasures one could name!
The spirit, my love, is stronger than laughter, stronger than the hungry panting of reckless lions that paw and shuffle underneath the canopy of bowed trees, stronger than the pace of a dying heart, that awaits to be pumped to life by episodes mothered by time, by hands of mankind, by slivers of hope hidden in the common mind.
His own life suddenly seemed repellently formal. Whom did he know or what did he know and whom did he love? Sitting on the stump under the burden of his father's death and even the mortality inherent in the dying, wildly colored canopy of leaves, he somehow understood that life was only what one did every day... Nothing was like anything else, including himself, and everything was changing all of the time. He knew he couldn't perceive the change because he was changing too, along with everything else. (from the novella, The Man Who Gave Up His Name)
A boy, if he's lucky, discovers his limitations across a leisurely passage of years, with a self-awareness arriving slowly. That way, at least he has plenty of time to heroically imagine himself first. Most boys unfold in this natural, measured way, growing up with at least one adult on the scene who can convincingly fake being all-powerful, omniscient, and unfailingly protective for a kid's first decade or so, providing an invaluable canopy of reachable stars and monsters that are comfortably make-believe.
At the base of the immense pillar, tiny Babylon was in shadow. Then the darkness climbed the tower, like a canopy unfurling upward. It moved slowly enough that Hillalum felt he could count the moments passing, but then it grew faster as it approached, until it raced past them faster than he could blink, and they were in twilight... For the first time, he knew night for what it was: the shadow of the earth itself, cast against the sky.
I wanted to think of what could not be thought except in intersections; I wanted to satiate my fiendishness in a neutering gnosis. I wanted to see the first chimp paint it's own likeness in a limbo state of gravitating iconostasis, flanked by altar candles and decked in a dark green Zuchetto upon which stars would genuflect in a prism without manacles, unrivaled by the boring, mundane phenomenon of space's black canopy loved by the plebeians.
John Thomas Allen
That night two lovers whispering under the lead canopy of the church were killed by their own passion. Their effusion of words, unable to escape through the Saturnian discipline of lead, so filled the spaces of the loft that the air was all driven away. The lovers suffocated, but when the sacristan opened the tiny door the words tumbled him over in their desire to be free, and were seen flying across the city in the shape of doves.
Some of the memories were not clear---dim human memories, seen through weak eyes and heard through weak ears: the first time I'd seen his face... the way it felt when he'd held me in the meadow... the sound of his voice through the darkness of my faltering consciousness when he'd save me from James... his face as he waited under a canopy of flowers to marry me... every precious moment on the island... his cold hands touching our baby through my skin...
Now when you cut a forest, an ancient forest in particular, you are not just removing a lot of big trees and a few birds fluttering around in the canopy. You are drastically imperiling a vast array of species within a few square miles of you. The number of these species may go to tens of thousands. ... Many of them are still unknown to science, and science has not yet discovered the key role undoubtedly played in the maintenance of that ecosystem, as in the case of fungi, microorganisms, and many of the insects.
E. O. Wilson
The tree of possibilities: life as it reveals itself to a man arriving, astonished, at the threshold of his adult life: an abundant treetop canopy filled with bees singing. And he thinks he understands why she never showed him the letters: she wanted to hear the murmur of the tree by herself, without him, because he, Jean-Marc, represented the abolition of all possibilities, he was the reduction, (even though it was a happy reduction) of her life to a single possibility.
This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?
As I sit, my back leaning against a damp, moss-covered tree trunk, my eyes sweeping the canopy above, my ears straining to catch the crack of a distant branch that betrays an orangutan moving in the treetops, I think about how we humans search for God. The tropical rain forest is the most complex thing an ordinary human can experience on this planet. A walk in the rain forest is a walk into the mind of God.
Birute M.F. Galdikas
In a designed economy there would be no trees, or certainly no very tall trees: no forests, no canopy. Trees are a waste. Trees are extravagant. Tree trunks are standing monuments to futile competition - futile if we think in terms of a planed economy. But the natural economy is not planned. Individual plants compete with other plants, of the same and other species, and the result is that they grow taller and taller, far taller than any planner would recommend.
Do you know why the leaves change colour, Makin?" They did look spectacular. The forest had grown around us as we traveled and the canopy burned with colour, from deepest red to flame orange, an autumn fire spreading in defiance of the rain. "I don't know, " he said, "Why do they change?" "Before a tree sheds a leaf it pumps it full of all the poison it can't rid itself of otherwise. That red there-that's a man's skin blotching with burst veins after an assassin spikes his last meal with roto-weed. The poison spreading through him before he dies.
This person has hoped and dreamed and now it is really happening and this person can hardly believe it. But believing is not an issue here, the time for faith and fantasy is over, it is really really happening. It involves stepping forward and bowing. Possibly there is some kneeling, such as when one is knighted. One is almost never knighted. But this person may kneel and receive a tap on each shoulder with a sword. Or, more likely, this person will be in a car or a store or under a vinyl canopy when it happens. Or online or on the phone. It could be an e-mail re: your knighthood. Or a long, laughing, rambling phone message in which every person this person has ever known is talking on a speakerphone and they are all saying, You have passed the test, it was all just a test, we were only kidding, real life is so much better than that.
When I do count the clock that tells the time, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; When I behold the violet past prime, And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white; When lofty trees I see barren of leaves Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, And summer's green all girded up in sheaves Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard, Then of thy beauty do I question make, That thou among the wastes of time must go, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake And die as fast as they see others grow; And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
Always in life an idea starts small, it is only a sapling idea, but the vines will come and they will try to choke your idea so it cannot grow and it will die and you will never know you had a big idea, an idea so big it could have grown thirty meters through the dark canopy of leaves and touched the face of the sky.' He looked at me and continued. 'The vines are people who are afraid of originality, of new thinking. Most people you encounter will be vines; when you are a young plant they are very dangerous.' His piercing blue eyes looked into mine.' Always listen to yourself, Peekay. It is better to be wrong than simply to follow convention. If you are wrong, no matter, you have learned something and you grow stronger. If you are right, you have taken another step toward a fulfilling life.
The spring rains woke the dormant tillers, and bright green shoots sprang from the moist earth and rose like sleepers stretching after a long nap. As spring gave way to summer, the bright green stalks darkened, became tan, turned golden brown. The days grew long and hot. Thick towers of swirling black clouds brought rain, and the brown stems glistened in the perpetual twilight that dwelled beneath the canopy. The wheat rose and the ripening heads bent in the prairie wind, a rippling curtain, an endless, undulating sea that stretched to the horizon.
There is a secret place. A radiant sanctuary. As real as your own kitchen. More real than that. Constructed of the purest elements. Overflowing with the ten thousand beautiful things. Worlds within worlds. Forests, rivers. Velvet coverlets thrown over featherbeds, fountains bubbling beneath a canopy of stars. Bountiful forests, universal libraries. A wine cellar offering an intoxi cation so sweet you will never be sober again. A clarity so complete you will never again forget. This magnificent refuge is inside you. Enter. Shatter the darkness that shrouds the doorway... Believe the incredible truth that the Beloved has chosen for his dwelling place the core of your own being because that is the single most beautiful place in all of creation.
Bree rubbed her belly. Figured; Alessandro wasn't one to live in quiet but strained tension. She stared up at the fabric of the canopy and then squeezed her eyes shut. 'Alessandro, considering that the outside world has the sterile hospital rooms, not to mention the epidurals, yeah. For goodness sake, Alessandro. You know we can't stay here forever. I'm entering my eighth month here.' 'I must say, I'm surprised you're so anxious to leave.' 'Why?' Bree asked, turning to look at his strong profile. 'You know why, Brianna. As soon as we walk out that door, you and I are over.' Bree felt a guilty tightening in her chest. 'Perhaps that's what you want, though.' 'That's not fair, ' Bree whispered even as she feared he was right. No. He's wrong. I love him. She wasn't going to let anyone shake what she and Alessandro had built here. She'd let her family know that she wanted Alessandro in her life and that she wanted to be a family with him. 'Thanks for your confidence in me, though. Really.
It was a perfect spring day. The air was sweet and gentle and the sky stretched high, an intense blue. Harold was certain that the last time he had peered through the net drapes of Fossebridge Road (his home), the trees and hedges were dark bones and spindles against the skyline; yet now that he was out, and on his feet, it was as if everywhere he looked, the fields, gardens, trees, and hedgerows and exploded with growth. A canopy of sticky young leaves clung to the branches above him. There were startling yellow clouds of forsythia, trails of purple aubrietia; a young willow shook in a fountain of silver. The first of the potato shoots fingered through the soil, and already tiny buds hung from the gooseberry and currant shrubs like the earrings Maureen used to wear. The abundance of new life was enough to make him giddy.
When you're and only child in a family with an only parent, you look at other, bigger families with envy. Mary Alice had a family with a station wagon, a split-level house, and a pool. But then I looked up and saw Mary Alice's toes, as she stood at the edged of the diving board. Her second toe lay on top of her big toe on each foot. I had never seen such a thing. I wondered if Mary Alice's toes would ever prevent her from doing the things she wanted to do in life. "Look, y'all!" she said, forming her perfect body into a perfect swan's dive. I decided then that any time I got frustrated with my overall situation in life, mad or jealous of knee socks or a pink canopy bed in a pink room, I'd take a deep breath and think about Mary Alice's toes. At least I didn't have Mary Alice's toes.
Morning is an important time of day, because how you spend your morning can often tell you what kind of day you are going to have. For instance, if you wake up to the sound of twittering birds, and find yourself in an enormous canopy bed, with a butler standing next to you holding a breakfast of freshly made muffins and hand-squeezed orange juice on a silver tray, you will know that your day will be a splendid one. If you wake up to the sound of church bells, and find yourself in a fairly big regular bed, with a butler standing next to you holding a breakfast of hot tea and toast on a plate, you will know that your day will be O.K. And if you wake up to the sound of somebody banging two metal pots together, and find yourself in a small bunk bed, with a nasty foreman standing in the doorway holding no breakfast at all, you will know that your day will be horrid.
That's my little piece of heaven. Go ahead." Ciro followed Remo through the open door to a small enclosed garden. Terra-cotta pots positioned along the top of the stone wall spilled over with red geraniums and orange impatiens. An elm tree with a wide trunk and deep roots filled the center of the garden. Its green leaves and thick branches reached past the roof of Remo's building, creating a canopy over the garden. There was a small white marble birdbath, gray with soot, flanked by two deep wicker armchairs. Remo fished a cigarette out of his pocket, offering another to Ciro as both men took a seat. "This is where I come to think." "Va bene, " Ciro said as he looked up into the tree. He remembered the thousands of trees that blanketed the Alps; here on Mulberry Street, one tree with peeling gray bark and holes in its leaves was cause for celebration.
When you enter the woods of a fairy tale and it is night, the trees tower on either side of the path. They loom large because everything in the world of fairy tales is blown out of proportion. If the owl shouts, the otherwise deathly silence magnifies its call. The tasks you are given to do (by the witch, by the stepmother, by the wise old woman) are insurmountable - pull a single hair from the crescent moon bear's throat; separate a bowl's worth of poppy seeds from a pile of dirt. The forest seems endless. But when you do reach the daylight, triumphantly carrying the particular hair or having outwitted the wolf; when the owl is once again a shy bird and the trees only a lush canopy filtering the sun, the world is forever changed for your having seen it otherwise. From now on, when you come upon darkness, you'll know it has dimension. You'll know how closely poppy seeds and dirt resemble each other. The forest will be just another story that has absorbed you, taken you through its paces, and cast you out again to your home with its rattling windows and empty refrigerator - to your meager livelihood, which demands, inevitably, that you write about it.
Elizabeth Jarrett Andrew
In the deep, wet tangled, wild jungle where even natives won't go is a mystical, dangerous river. The river's got no name because naming it would make it real, and no one wanted to believe that river be real. They say you get there only inside a dream-but don't you think of it at bedtime, now, 'cause not everyone who goes there be able to leave! That jungle canopy, it so leafy true daylight can never break in the riverbank, it be wet muck thick with creatures that eat you alive if you stay still too long. To miss that fate, you gots to go into the black water. But the water be heavy as hot tar; once you in, it bind you and pull you along, bit by bit, 'til you come to the end of the land, and then over the water goes in a dark, slow cascade, the highest falls in the history of the world ever. There be demons in that cascading water, and snakes, and wraiths that whisper in your ears. They love you, they say. You should give yourself to them, stay with them, become one of them, they say. 'Isn't it good here?' they say. 'No pain, no trouble.' But also no light and no love and no joy and no ground. You tumble and tumble as you fall, and you try and choose, but your mind be topsy-turvy and maybe you can't think so well, and maybe you can't choose right, and maybe you never wake up. "It felt like that, " I tell Tootsie, "even after you got me out and Scott moved me to Highland. I couldn't choose. I couldn't shut out the wraiths... But you would say, 'Hang on, sweetie, ' and Scottie would say, 'I miss you, Mama, ' and Scott would hold me, just hold me and say nothing at all." Tootsie snorts. "Scott was useless the whole while." "Scott was in the river, too.
Therese Anne Fowler
Now I myself, I cheerfully admit, feel that enormity in Kensington Gardens as something quite natural. I feel it so because I have been brought up, so to speak, under its shadow; and stared at the graven images of Raphael and Shakespeare almost before I knew their names; and long before I saw anything funny in their figures being carved, on a smaller scale, under the feet of Prince Albert. I even took a certain childish pleasure in the gilding of the canopy and spire, as if in the golden palace of what was, to Peter Pan and all children, something of a fairy garden. So do the Christians of Jerusalem take pleasure, and possibly a childish pleasure, in the gilding of a better palace, besides a nobler garden, ornamented with a somewhat worthier aim. But the point is that the people of Kensington, whatever they might think about the Holy Sepulchre, do not think anything at all about the Albert Memorial. They are quite unconscious of how strange a thing it is; and that simply because they are used to it. The religious groups in Jerusalem are also accustomed to their coloured background; and they are surely none the worse if they still feel rather more of the meaning of the colours. It may be said that they retain their childish illusion about their Albert Memorial. I confess I cannot manage to regard Palestine as a place where a special curse was laid on those who can become like little children. And I never could understand why such critics who agree that the kingdom of heaven is for children, should forbid it to be the only sort of kingdom that children would really like; a kingdom with real crowns of gold or even of tinsel. But that is another question, which I shall discuss in another place; the point is for the moment that such people would be quite as much surprised at the place of tinsel in our lives as we are at its place in theirs. If we are critical of the petty things they do to glorify great things, they would find quite as much to criticise (as in Kensington Gardens) in the great things we do to glorify petty things. And if we wonder at the way in which they seem to gild the lily, they would wonder quite as much at the way we gild the weed.
KILLAZ REFLECT THE DESTINY OF THE VILLAGE SO WHEN 20 COUNT REGRETS FLOAT DOWN FUTILITY SPILLAGE SEE I'LL PASS THE BROKEN ARROW THIS TIME FOR CERTAIN YEA BUT FROM HERE ON OUT ITS HOOF THE MARE THE BARE FOOTED URCHIN DIG IT IN PERSON NOW EXHIBIT TRUE AUDACITY AND PASSIVELY HACK GREASE INTO RIBBONS YOUR EXCUSED FROM THE ROUNDTABLE ADMISSIONS COMMITTEE ACTIVIST LEGENDS TURNED HOSTAGE IN FALLEN CITIES DIRTY EARTHLINGS CIRCLING VISION IMMACULATE SPIN ME DIZZY IN A CROSSWALK MY TOO FAR GONE MASTODON SENSES INSPECT RELENTLESS FOR FITTED BOOGIE SYSTEMS AND CROOK ADDICTIONS WELL SURE MY CROWN IS FORMED OF THORNS YEA BUT MY THORNS ARE FORMED OF SOUND AND I HAVE FOUND SOUND WILL KEEP ME WARM WHEN THE MORNINGS BORN WITH FROZEN GROUND PUT A ROPE DOWN PULL ME FROM WHERE THE BUZZARDS CLEARED I MEAN FROM THE BONES YOU AND YOUR LITTLE BADASS MAD MAX MUSKETEERS WHEN THE SILHOETTES OF EMACIATED FRAMES DANCE ON A HIGHWIRE MISTOOK FOR ASPIRING THIRD WORLD POSTER CHILDREN BUT IS INSERTED GHOST WITH DEALIN DEAD TO ADMINISTER LINKS LIKE CHIEF THEN WHATS YOUR FORTE DEVIL DRAGGER IN DISGUISE SEEKING THE MATCH MADE IN YOUR EYES FRIEND IT DON'T TAKE THE WISE THIS MINUTE TRIPLICATE PACE UNIFIED I DON'T CONDONE THE BLASPHEMY NATURALLY ITS PROCREATION FROM THE FLOODS, TO THE FIRES, TO THE DROUGHTS, TO THE CYCLONES TIDAL WAVES, THE TWISTERS, TORNADOES, AND HELL STONES WHIRLWINDS, TROPICAL STORMS, BLIZZARDS AND MONSOONS ALL OF WHICH I WITNESSED PRIOR TO WAKING UP INSIDE MY ROOM LOOK AT THE CROOK AS I PANIC EPISODE TANTRUMS FUCK HUGGING MY COOL THE EDGINESS READIES THE MOCK KNOCK QUICK DRAW HENCE THE DUEL THE COMPANY OF SIMILARS COULDN'T EXCITE THE MOTOR BUT HERMIT CRAB ACE HOME ALONE-UH ONE BARREL OF IDIOMS AND CHARCOAL STICK, COURAGE UNDER DESIRE CANOPY DRAPED BEAUTIFUL MESSIAH RELUCTANT STUCK IN THE PLUCK IN THE HAUL BUZZING THE FUZZING TELEVISON MIXER BOOK OF SATURATED MATCHES AND A HALF-MADE BED PICK OF THE LITTER, LITTER OF THE PICK PACK LEADER WILL HUFF CANNIBAL FUMES, MECHANICAL ZOOM THERE'S AMPLE ROOM STOWAWAYS INSIDE THE CARGO BED SAID LEECH PRIOR TO FIRING UP HIS BARNACLE MAGNET INSTINCTS LEASHING HIMSELF TO WHERE THE WIND SPLITTING ICE STORMS AND TERMITE SWARMS ARE COMMONPLACE I'M A TRACE THIS SILVER LINING WINDING ROUND THE PROFIT CHASE I KNOW THERE IS GOOD IN YOU IF ONE PEELS BACK THE OPULENCE BUT I ALSO KNOW ITS RATIO THE BAD DON'T FEED MY CONFIDENCE THE NUTRIENTS WILL BE INTENSE CIRCLE THE CLUES UNITS OF SUCCESS BEING PERSONAL THEN SUCKED BASIC DIVERSION RUSTY ANCHOR BUDGET FOR NOTHING WEDGED BETWEEN AESOP ROCK AND A SCARRED FACE OF FRUSTRATED FUCK YOUS BOUND BY CONCERN I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M STILL CONCERNED I CAN'T BELIEVE SIDE CHILDREN TURN IN THEIR SLEEP OVER ONE-LINERS WELL I YIELD TO HEAR YOUR BURNS COLOR ME OUT OF MY SKULL DRAGGIN A WAGON OF CREATURE FEATURES AND ALL I EVER WANTED WAS TO AGGRAVATE THE SLEEPERS LOOK SELF-CRAFTED HEROICS MURDER WORTHLESS CRASH TEST IDEOLOGIES, CATALOG ALIEN DOCTRINES TYPE DISTURBANCE GOT EM OUT, KILLING MACHINES TURN BELLY UP BUCKLED, THE TROUBLES I'VE SEEN COAX TWENTY FOUR SEVENS OF WIDE EYES FROM DAY DREAMERS CLEAN OR DIRTY SERPENTS IN TURN WISH PREFERENCE FOR THE LATTER JUSTIFIED THE GERMS BURN CAUTERIZE THE GASHES AFTER ON MY LEFT, ONE FINGER FOR EACH BURROUGH I CAN TOUCH ON MY RIGHT, ONE FINGER FOR EACH TIME THAT I WAKE UP MIDSUMMER NIGHT WHO'S CLOAKED IN A PRISTINE MANTLE OF HELLFIRE BUT A-CAPITAL GLACIERS OUT THE EAST SLIDE LATERAL BORN FOR ONE TASK INDEED TO SPOIL THE CITIZEN KANE EMOTE SELF THIS UGLY DUCKLING SEED LOOK I AINT TOO ATTIRED OF DRAGGIN THE BAGGAGE OVER THE SEASAW SEEDS WHEN THE REAPERS TURNS MORTALS TO CASPERS SEE THE PLAIN AND STONE CONJURABLE CAN'T MIMMICK THE NULL OF A BILLION TROOPS HOLDING MATCHSTICKS TO EMPTY CANNONS STAND OF A MANY MOONS WHEN THE SUN HIT THE MOUNTAINSIDE SPLENDIDLY BASK IN THE LAST WARMTH THAT BE KNOWN TO MAN'S TANGENTS IN THE WINK OF AN INNOCENT STARCHILD'S EYELID DROP HE VANISHED MANAGED TO CARVE INITIALS IN THE GRANITE WALL THE DAMNED IT ALL UP I HUNG WITH CATS THAT DO THE DONTS CATS THAT FORAGE THROUGH THE MOATS HOPING THEY OPEN WITH SOVERIEGNTY AND A CANTINE DEEMED WITH PRODIGIES I LOVE THE WAKE, THE WATCH, THE WALK, THE WORK THE WELL ITS ALMOST SIX O'CLOCK I'VE NEVER SEEN SO MANY TUGBOATS MISS THE DOCK