Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting,
The soul that rises with us, our life’s star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar;
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home.
- William Wordsworth
(when i visited Houston, i saw Brian, and an old friend - Peter Z - who was just diagnosed with HCM…)
(reunions. it makes me think of the borges - Being with you and not being with you is the only way I have to measure time.)
Happy Holidays, everybody.
Stupid Little Borders