“He that has and a little tiny wit…”

dolce vita

Dr. Omed likes to keep his wits about him, even when he’s not using them. He keeps them in the little black book on the table there. Do you know where your wits are?

With heigh-ho, the wind and the rain…

Some days the silence masters me. Daily I pray the muse take down her cat-o-nine-tongues to lash me to the finish of the mother-may-I of a new poem. The prayer is answered only occasionally, on an austere Pavlovian schedule of intermittent reward.

Must make content with his fortunes fit…

To snatch a fragment from from the mouth of King Lear, “the art of our necessities is strange.”

For the rain it raineth every day.


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