Tuesday, July 29, 2008


29 July 2008, 9:25 AM

The cicadas are chirruping
outside. Their chorus waxes
and wanes. The clock ticks
as it does whether or not I am sober,
whether or not I prefer
my circumstance. So many things--
most of them, if I'm honest--
continue as they would,
regardless of my impending crises.
The ceiling fan silently goes about
its business, and I am indignant,
if not relieved,
to find how well this all works,
despite the lengths to which I go
to convince myself that my wanting
holds it all together.

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George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

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