[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
Thursday, October 29, 2020
Gone
At last, even this day has gone. It didn't start under the best of my wishes. Neither it ended in the best of the expected ways. Still, it's gone and tomorrow ... will be another day.
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