I have found a poem and accompanying artwork that really touch my heart.
By William Blake
I was angry with my friend:
I told my cock, my cock did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my cock did grow.
And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunnèd it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore three more cocks bright;
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,
And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled that pole:
In the morning glad I see
My cock outstretched as if a tree.
I hope you enjoyed these two beautiful things that I think make the world a much brighter place.
The singer dove off the stage and crowd surfed in a sort of reverse funeral procession where the person being carried is the only one truly alive. Touching him I felt religious ecstasy and started speaking in tongues and requesting songs that didn't exist.
There's no easy way to put this, so I'll tell it like it is. Bouillon is died. He went missing before the weekend and yesterday I found his skeletonized remains at the bottom of the #3 soup vat during one of my swims. I thought the cream of mushroom soup had an especially nourishing taste, and a lot more clumps of fur and skin than usual.
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