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in a web of glass, pinned to the edges of vision

halfinched off indigoskynet

I'd forgotten how often we saw Magritte

mucha mosaic

halfinched off indigoskynet

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bibliophilia
"When you see this, post a bit of poetry in your own journal."


Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts--from far where I abide--
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.

--Sonnet XXVII, William Shakespeare
  • It's obscurely comforting to know that Billy Wigglestick was an obsessive insomniac too.
    • I find it obscurely comforting to know that ANYBODY ELSE has done this often enough to feel like writing about it.
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