The first poems I knew were nursery rhymes, and before I could read them for myself I had come to love just the words of them, the words alone. What the words stood for, symbolised, or meant was of very secondary importance--what mattered was the very sound of them as I heard them for the first time on the lips of the remote and quite incomprehensible grown-ups who seemed, for some reason, to be living in my world. And those words were, to me, as the notes of bells, the sounds of musical instruments, the noises of wind, sea, and rain, the rattle of milkcarts, the clapping of hooves on cobbles, the fingering of branches on a window pane, might be to someone deaf from birth, who has miraculously found his hearing.
dylan thomas, in letter to admirer
my brief period of "load has lightened" has ended abruptly with a bunch of disparate "urgent" tasks - one quite big and immediate - suddenly on my…
cny is over. or at least the first week of it is over. ate another whole lot of crap, despite having had only two visitations, fml. dread packing…
gosh, so freaking tired, zzz.