"I heard the old, old men say,
'Everything alters,
And one by one we drop away.'
They had hands like claws, and their knees
Were twisted like the old thorn-trees
By the waters.
'All that's beautiful drifts away
Like the waters.'
-W. B. Yeats

end of the year papers; grey grey thunder and rumblingness
and recording all finished

empty quiet in the house
and rather in love with Richard Avedon (who isn't?)

sounds of today here

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