long hath been the sleep of mine hand, cold hath been the nib of mine pen, crappy doth sound mine attempt at that which, verily, might hearken to an english of old.
We are, all of us, dying.
What a great way to start a post. But it’s true.
We run. We dither. . . . → Read More: the pen moveth…and leaveth in its wake little of note.
what’d you say?