Being in a coma can play havoc with your sense of time. It can turn your eyes from brown to blue. It can grow hair on your belly, it can get you lost between bedroom and office. If you are to live in extra innings, you’ll have to watch the corners, step around bad things, ignore insults and welcome loving hands that sculpt you in your chair. Being
The people I love the best jump into work head first without dallying in the shallows and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight. They seem to become natives of that element, the black sleek heads of seals bouncing like half-submerged balls.
I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
After the declaration by emperor to stop the war many people in Tokyo killed themselves, for instance, in front of the imperial palace. But few people knows those facts.
Hence you must teach me where you got the news or what sort of book gave you the fact that quite few people knows.
For my people everywhere singing their slave songs repeatedly: their dirges and their ditties and their blues and jubilees, praying their prayers nightly to an unknown god, bending their knees humbly to an unseen power;
For my people lending their strength to the years, to the gone years and the now years and the maybe years, washing ironing cooking scrubbing sewing mending
Lincoln? He was a mystery in smoke and flags Saying yes to the smoke, yes to the flags, Yes to the paradoxes of democracy, Yes to the hopes of government Of the people by the people for the people, No to debauchery of the public mind, No to personal malice nursed and fed, Yes to the Constitution when a help, No to the Constitution when a hindrance Yes to man as a struggler amid illusions, Each man fated to answer for himself: Which of the faiths and illusions of mankind Must I choose for my own sustaining light To bring me beyond the present wilderness?
I. Of Choice Despair is big with friends I love, Hydrogen and burning jews. I give them all the grief I have But I tell them, friends, I choose, I choose,
Don’t make me say against my glands Or how the world has treated me. Though gay and modest give offense
1 Meryon saw it coming (who was he?): No people, so no noise. As it should be. The Bridge. The Morgue. Ghostly round his bed Antipodean atolls and tattoos had fluted,
Volcanoes puffed. Then borborygmic sea Forked, at its last gasp, into a V: Down that black gallery and backward slid
Oh mighty City of New York! you are wonderful to behold, Your buildings are magnificent, the truth be it told, They were the only thing that seemed to arrest my eye, Because many of them are thirteen storeys high.
And as for Central Park, it is lovely to be seen, Especially in the summer season when its shrubberies and trees are green; And the Burns’ statue is there to be seen, Surrounded by trees, on the beautiful sward so green; Also Shakespeare and Sir Walter Scott, Which by Englishmen and Scotchmen will ne’er be forgot.
There the people on the Sabbath-day in thousands resort, All loud, in conversation and searching for sport, Some of them viewing the menagerie of wild beasts there,
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