Maybe tomorrow will be the day everyone wakes up to write a poem. Or maybe just you and me, fallen asleep on duty, fallen asleep to duty forever. No one knows what will happen, but you and I at least, while the music of the murmur invents us, will have no part in anyone’s war, we will waste nothing, a signal going through us, like an inkling of god or a hunger for strawberries or the indisputable fact of love.
-Dean Young, from The Art of Recklessness: Poetry as Assertive Force and Contradiction
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Or maybe tomorrow will be the day everyone takes their time, because their Sunday is suddenly snowed in. Maybe London...
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