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Tuesday, 21 March 2017

something wicked this way comes, ray bradbury

but what father ever really believes it? he carried no burden, he feels no pain. what man, like woman, lies down in darkness and gets up with child? the gentle, smiling ones own the good secret. oh, what strange wonderful clocks women are. they nest in time. they make the flesh that holds fast and binds eternity. 

they live inside the gift, know power, accept, and need not mention it. 

why speak of time when you are time, and shape the universal moments, as they pass, into warmth and action? 

how men envy and often hate these warm clocks, these wives, who know they will live forever. 

so what do we do? we men turn terribly mean, because we can't hold on to the world or ourselves or anything. we are blind to continuity, all breaks down, falls, melts, stops, rots or runs away. so, since we cannot shape time, where does that leave men? 

sleepless. staring. 

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