January 2010
"This man... 'Slomo'... he's different." →
Paper Bird
Paper bird, we have much in common. Through your gaping seams I see the emptiness of your heart And I cannot fly, either. But paper bird, we know things that they do not. We know how it feels to be bleached by the sun To be regarded as a curiosity To be torn irreparably by people who don’t realise our delicacies. Paper bird, We know that we are real.
-Little Luisa Scavo
Song and Chorus
Here’s to the maiden of bashful fifteen; Here’s to the widow of fifty; Here’s to the flaunting extravagant quean, And here’s to the housewife that’s thrifty. Chorus. Let the toast pass,— Drink to the lass, I’ll warrant she’ll prove an excuse for a glass. Here’s to the charmer whose dimples we prize; Now to the maid who has none, sir;...
may my heart always be open to little birds who are the secrets of living whatever they sing is better than to know and if men should not hear them men are old may my mind stroll about hungry and fearless and thirsty and supple and even if it’s sunday may i be wrong for whenever men are right they are not young and may myself do nothing usefully and love yourself so more than truly...