The dusty light, the final hour
My ability to get any sleep has deranged like a spiderweb on LSD, but just a moment ago in the street it was thinly but distinctly snowing. I turned on WHRB and got Michael Tippett's A Child of Our Time (1944). I still can't believe Opera Boston folded right before they would have staged the Mozart-out-of-Eliot Hermetic crack of The Midsummer Marriage (1955). I can't believe in impending Thanksgiving.

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Hope you can lay some snares and catch some sleep sometime soon.
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Time's been weird for years, but I am beginning to have serious questions about gravity.
Hope you can lay some snares and catch some sleep sometime soon.
I did! I even caught some sunlight.
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