July 2012
215 posts
I told you to be patient
I told you to be fine
And I told you to be balanced
And I told you to be kind
In the morning I’ll be with you
But it will be a different kind
I’ll be holding all the tickets
And you’ll be owning all the fines
“I lingered round them, under that benign sky; watched the moths fluttering among the heath, and hare-bells; listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass; and wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.”
—Emily Brontë, last lines of Wuthering Heights
“I love her and that’s the beginning and end of everything.”
—F. Scott Fitzgerald
I rode out to the old satellite dish to ponder what turn of fate had brought me to such a savage and reprehensible point in my life. Before long the sound of the wind and the grassed lulled me into slumber, and though dreams by definition are stranger, the dream I slipped into was particularly odd, because it was not my own but somebody else’s.
