Guardian of old decency, courtesy, and right action, you sniff at my justifications, constant dancing from one set of arms to the next, arguments for the African compound, wives multiplied. Yet, you have in a more discreet manner fallen in love with half of Port of Spain and various poets of the New York school, or have I misunderstood, failed to learn the truth from the Guardian, rather Master, of the Hat? |
The program installed this time, giving me the green thumb's sign to roll the type, unfold my stool and sit for hours on the artificial grass, to gaze at the showering digits and gigabytes while in the hotel my daughter watches young competitors dancing with the stars and my son reads the Republic trying to fathom Plato's theorem, his argument against image makers, excluding them from citizenship. January 6, 2016 |