2 Tough and Crazy people get together and consider life through the Oracle of the Animated Gif. They contemplate SLEEPINESS in all its forms. Blessed and welcome. An attempt to cease existing for a time. The portal to sweet and deep dreamings or the the refused invitation.
FOR BREATHING AND MANY FORMS OF MEDITATION TRY http://www.egreenway.com/wellbeing/breathing.htm
On a Myer hairdryer:
“Do not use while sleeping”.
(Darn, and that’s the only time I have to work on my hair).
“One should either be sad or joyful. Contentment is a warm sty for eaters and sleepers.”
Eugene O’Neill
When the lips are closed, then the heart begins to speak; when the heart is silent,
then the soul blazes up, bursting into flame, and this illuminates the whole of life.
So I gave up the idea of a circus, and concluded
he was from an asylum. But we never came to an asylum -- so I was up a stump,
as you may say. I asked him how far we were from Hartford. He said he had never
heard of the place; which I took to be a lie, but allowed it to go at that.
At the end of an hour we saw a far-away town sleeping in a valley by a winding
river; and beyond it on a hill, a vast gray fortress, with towers and turrets,
the first I had ever seen out of a picture.
“Bridgeport?” said I, pointing.
“Camelot,” said he.
My stranger had been showing signs of sleepiness. He caught himself nodding, now, and smiled one of those pathetic, obsolete smiles of his, and said:
“I find I can’t go on; but come with me, I’ve got it all written out, and you can read it if you like.”
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Courtby Mark Twain
a.k.a. Samuel Clemens
(1835-1910)
which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.
Mary Oliver, Messenger
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay, from An Unquiet Mind) Time does not bring relief; you all have lied Who told me time would ease me of my pain! I miss him in the weeping of the rain; I want him at the shrinking of the tide; The old snows melt from every mountain-side, And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane; But last year's bitter loving must remain Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide. There are a hundred places where I fear To go, - so with his memory they brim. And entering with relief some quiet place Where never fell his foot or shone his face I say, "There is no memory of him here!" And so stand stricken, so remembering him.
