Reset Forty-Nine, Day One Hundred Twenty-Three

[rejectomorph]

Not a great Saturday again, with two long and unsatisfactory naps troubled by unremembered yet disturbing dreams. I get the feeling that it's taking me longer to remember where I am each time I wake up. So far I do remember, though, after a while. Eventually I won't. And at that point it won't matter where I actually am. Everywhere will be the same nowhere. It is all very tiring, though. Shortly I'll go back to bed and forget where I am all over again. I'm looking forward to that. I'm not looking back for fear there might be nothing there.

Happy first day of autumn. I hope summer doesn't let the door hit its ass.



Sunday Verse

To a Child dancing In the Wind

by William Butler Yeats


Has no one said those daring
Kind eyes should be more learned?
I have found out how despairing
The moths are when they are burned.
But I am old and you are young,
So we speak a different tongue.

Oh you will take whatever’s offered
And dream that all the world’s a friend,
Suffer as your mother suffered,
Be as broken in the end.
I could have warned you—but you are young,
And I speak a barbarous tongue.