"O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!"
The Hermit cross'd his brow.
"Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say—
What manner of man art thou?"

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'd
With a woful agony,
Which forced me to begin my tale;
And then it left me free.

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

letters to africa...

dear africa,


it doesn't feel like christmas. not here, not now... not to me. with everything all perked up with color and twinkling lights, all i could think of is how i'd be able to escape my self-made prison. the cold yuletide air is an aid that i am thankful for... at least i'm not the only one who's cold. not for this season, that is. christmases were meant to be carefree... now, they're but the deep breath that preceeds a great plunge. i'd rather freeze in mid-air... than burn down south.

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