Yesterday... it was brought to my attention how people come and go here... time passes. Sometimes people reappear after the passage of years. Sometimes they say goodbye. Sometimes they don't. Sometimes they go away mad, but they don't say why. Sometimes they pass away, and it is brought to my attention. Sometimes they pass away and it is not brought to my attention; ships in the night, my friend, ships in the night on a cruise through eternity. Wow!!! Look at all those stars!
Some people would come around to pound scripture, the way frat-boys pound beers. I can't remember a single time that anyone was moved by this, but... this doesn't mean we were spared the experience; dusty tomes are opened and particles waft into the air... dust motes dancing in sunlight. Then... the person sneezes and it breaks the mood... whatever mood there might have been, in the Karmic record of ♫where, or when♫... BUT... I digress... into fields of Proust and watercress (WTF?). “In the rooms, the women come and go, talking of Fra Angelico.” No... that's not right. That sounds off. It had something to do with The Renaissance, or maybe it was just before that.
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