It was like a tapestry, unfolding, as it were, with the grandeur of a thousand candle-lit surpises, right into their very sight. The clouds seemed to sing with the fullest joy of simply being cloudy. The rain provided complex percussion, and the hill kinda sat and listened, like and audience. I was not the conductor. Far from it, i was the person whose job it is to ensure that nobodys music stands remain fallend over. And what a job.

But no.
These are lies
And though beggars cannot be choosers
Thems only beggars that chose to be so in the first place, as my mother always used to say.


Just a random post to idle away the time, and to fend of the skulking form of study with a good left hook.