Tuesday, March 25, 2008


"Mr.Earbrass stands on the terrace at twilight. It is bleak; it is cold; and the virtue has gone out of everything. Words drift through his mind: anguish turnips conjunctions string parties no parties urns desuetude claws Antipodes mush glaciers incoherence amputation tides deceit mourning elsewards..."
The Unstrung Harp by Edward Gorey

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