Well. I broke up with my girlfriend today. I'm feeling all melencholy. I find myself driking beer, eating chocolate, and reading Emily Dickinson poetry. (I am a man, really!). My soul is so black that when you open the refrigerator, the light doesn't even come on.
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"Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me."
... but I didn't have a crumb to give.
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"Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me."
... but I didn't have a crumb to give.
quiescence:
I'm really sorry to hear that...you should call me.