[Poetry] may make us from time to time a little aware of the deeper unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves.
T.S.Eliot
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Heavy weather
Strange clouds over our head. The sky looks like a brain. Or is it maybe the under-view of a soft sea turmoil up above?
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