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Profile Information

Gender: Female
Hometown: Atlanta, Georgia
Home country: USA
Current location: Watching my Koi Pond in upstate New York.
Member since: Mon Apr 25, 2005, 09:44 PM
Number of posts: 72,025

About Me

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. ~~~~~~~~~ For, it ends in the blink of an eye. Carpe Diem (Seize the day)!

Journal Archives

Who's there!

It is a very good day, indeed!

Does I haz to get up ...

RIP Jerry

Wishing for a clear sky ....

Pie ...

Did you find the coffee shop you were looking for?

Thanks for posting the link.

Comes a time

Ya gotta make whatever changes become necessary for peace of mind.

I'm making things prettier wherever I call home. [img][/img]

It's always nice to see you, warrprayer!

Not that actual story but in researching it I came across this:

The Book of the Dun Cow by Walter Wangerin, Jr.

She put her soft nose against him, to nudge him into a more
peaceful position. Gently she arranged his head so that he might
clearly see her. Her sweet breath went into his nostrils. . . . The
Dun Cow took a single step back from the rooster then and
looked at him. . . . Her eyes were liquid with compassion—deep,
deep, as the earth is deep. Her brow knew his suffering and
knew besides that, worlds more. But the goodness was that,
though this wide brow knew so much, yet it bent over his pain
alone and creased with it.
Chauntecleer watched his own desolation appear in the eyes of
the Cow, then sink so deeply into them that she shuddered. Her
eyes pooled as she looked at him. The tears rose and spilled
over. . . . He watched—felt—the miracle take place. Nothing
changed: The clouds would not be removed, nor his sons
returned, nor his knowledge replenished. But there was this: his
grief had become her grief, his sorrow her own. And though he
grieved not one bit less for that, yet his heart made room for her,
for her will and wisdom, and he bore the sorrow better.
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