I had a really nice birthday. Day at the MFA with Degas' nudes, dinner with my family at Bergamot. The week since has been mixed, but I read Sean O'Brien's The Drowned Book (2007) and Irmgard Keun's The Artificial Silk Girl (Die kunstseidene Mädchen, 1932) and I've got three-quarters of Edward Petherbridge's Slim Chances and Unscheduled Appearances (2011) to go; I am not without really well-written diversions.
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- 1: Well, you can't tell much from faces
- 2: Be my hand on the oar to row to eternity
- 3: Now I'm walking round the city just waiting to come to
- 4: You know this city like the back of your hand, but deep roots are holding me down
- 5: Here we are in the summer rain again
- 6: You're on, music master
- 7: To cormorant to samphire to plover
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