Even a broken clock is right twice a day…


Rotten brightness…

Rotting is the bright effect from which no creature on this field can hide
Sway motion of slow drops – mind that hit the ground gently
Feel it not grounded, though, for it is free to fly
In its despondency of…
Low heights
strong winds
Rotten brightness.


I have the directive thought that…

For a while have these streets extended themselves before me and begged me to stay. One more night. One more day. One more hour.

The passing traffic of events in the opposite direction invites me back to the not-too-distance place I not long ago now was.

I want back. And I will be back. Foot on the accelerator and ensure I will make it out of here, but soon to be back.

I love you. I will miss you. I thank you.
I am now flying…


IF you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master; If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
‘ Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch, if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!

R. Kipling