Without Title

This is nothing compared to the mesmerizing Walden, but still...

Everything has its season-winter too. But what is Winter if not the memory of Spring? Icicles grow, imperceptibly, like your tears within. Inching their way downwards. Without title or an inheritance, sorrow becomes your name. When they break you think your heart will too. A heart, a toy, made from glass. It was bound to break, don't ask...or was it? Are there not other ways of disappearing, friend?

When ice becomes conscious of the sun, it doesn't last long:it warms and melts and flows away.

---Rumi.

There is nothing really lasting, nothing that will endure, except the sincere expression of the actual conditions of life.

---Penelope Fitzgerald

His gaze, contemplating the stars, remains alert, available and released from all certitude.

------Seamus Heaney on Italo Calvino's Mr.Palomar.

I heard it said.

I heard it said, there is

a stone in the water and a circle

and over the water a word

that lays the circle around the stone.

~~~~

Today, I wanted to get away from thoughts about 'black winter'. Why not ditch the 'black' in the pretentious 'black sun'? In any case, the fading autumn light here is too beautifully mellow for me write like that today-and there are other black suns out there, a lot more darker.

I just wanted to link to

this since it's one of my favourites and it's one of my favourites because so many different people contributed to it!