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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.
no subject
*hugs*