“But she, remembering her old ruin’d hall,
And all the windy clamor of the daws
About her hollow turret, pluck’d the grass
There growing longest by the meadow’s edge,
And into many a listless annulet,
Now over, now beneath her wedding ring,
Wove and unwove it…”
—Alfred Tennyson, “Enid”
"I don't think there is a map."
curve of justice or a LAPSE
loved AGAIN
& we know with what kind of cobble
the Hell road is PAVED
all the incredible things i have discovered
fishing with a SIEVE
not a world but an eidolon of a world
has ENDED
When we went from mechanical hard drives.
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