[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
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Wednesday, April 29, 2020
Evening at Thal
The solitary tree on top of the hill has put up its crown. But the wind is always the same.
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