A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret suffering, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and cries escape, they sound like beautiful music.
| Kierkegaard
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Sunday, February 21, 2010
NOT I BUT THE WIND ..BLOWN ME AWAY.
CLOUDS ARE GREY,NO HINT OF SUN SHINE I SAT BE LONELY LOOKING THROUGH MY WINDOW THE DAY IS DULL I CAN SEE NO PROMISE ,ANY HOPE EVEN BIRDS AND FOWLS OF THE AIR ARE IN DEEP SLUMBER IT SUCH A BLAH DAY!
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