Thursday



"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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