

The RealistIThe Realist
The clock struck sixteen, The beginning drew near; The start of an epoch, There's nothing to fear.
This one never ends: Hands ne'er to return, Indeed, darkness sends, The tables to turn.
Horizons do blur: The sky meets the sea Realities a-stir, One never shall be.
Unheard and unseen, That life is controlled Though freer it seems, The unreal's too cold.
In interesting times, The curse says to live, Yet escape is our game, To the ice that there is.
Its comfort we hold, As


MorningEarly afternoon, air still and sleepily skin-warm.Morning
Home seems to have devolved into a kind of jungle anarchy. I've only just got out of bed, and now I'm perched here, crunching like a starved squirrel on twiglets that could be of true sticky origin, whilst pecking at the computer with my legs curled round me as if I were a monkey, partaking in some primate grooming ritual. Aromatic scents drift from the kitchen, but there's no-one about.
Occasionally a roar sounds from the living room, and nearby an animal jumps. Strawberry seems to be handling things ok, but we figure he's got feline Alzheimer's. Nugget has disappea
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Runner (10 minutes before a race): Coach, my shin bothers me when I apply pressure on it.
Coach: Then don't touch yourself before the race.
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Runner (10 minutes before a race): Coach, my shin bothers me when I apply pressure on it.
Coach: Then don't touch yourself before the race.
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...h`ic degismedi, hep s`onsuz...
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ultima forsan...
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khjljjk
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