Monday, March 7
at 2:23 p.m.
Apparently, if I were a file extension I'd be .mp3. I'm not sure if that's good or bad. The results read:
You are .mp3. The kids love you. You get along with just about everybody except the music industry. You really make yourself heard.
Click the link above to find out what kind of file extension you would be. Huzzah!
In other news... Actually, there's no other news. I've been mulling over various things in my head - various things that I thought I could place in this space. But nothing's coming. So I'm sorry to have wasted your time.
Here's a little Keats. Matches my mood dead on, I think.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.
- John Keats, Ode to A Nightingale (li 41-60)
You are .mp3. The kids love you. You get along with just about everybody except the music industry. You really make yourself heard.
Click the link above to find out what kind of file extension you would be. Huzzah!
In other news... Actually, there's no other news. I've been mulling over various things in my head - various things that I thought I could place in this space. But nothing's coming. So I'm sorry to have wasted your time.
Here's a little Keats. Matches my mood dead on, I think.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.
- John Keats, Ode to A Nightingale (li 41-60)
