Terminal onlignity was reached at the point in the night where I encountered a take so bad, I was left misquoting Robert Bolt's Thomas More to
spatch. A Man for All Seasons (1960) falls in a class with Anouilh's Becket (1959) where my distance from the Christian conscience of their protagonists has never prevented me from loving the arguments of the plays, so that fragments of their language have been shot through my own for decades and thus when I see the claim on the internet that not visibly rejoicing in the murder of a CEO is flashing a red flag of complicity with the incoming administration, apparently my brain responds with its best approximation of "And when the last law was down, and the Devil turned round on you—where would you hide, Roper, the laws all being flat?"
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- 1: And four hours north of Portland, the radio flips on
- 2: Re-reading our texts from the strawberry days
- 3: You are just the fingertips of something
- 4: I yield to her cry, losing my own names within me
- 5: Shaking off the echoes of yesterday
- 6: Everything I love is on the table, everything I love is out to sea
- 7: He tried to run away, well, she hit him with a hammer
- 8: There's no combination of words I could put on the back of a postcard
- 9: She's got a common full of love
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- Style: Classic for Refried Tablet by and
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