take my hand and climb with me…

forty five degrees: ‘wondering what the crop will yield…’

Upwards at 45 Degrees – Spoon

forty five

Curious period, cycles of completion. Temporary time travel, journeyed back to a magical holiday. Snatched from reality, and savoured. Winters raging fires, whiskey and a loft to nest in. Owls lullaby at night, waves sigh by day. Our wing’d lion swinging. Your hand, my thigh. And singing. You said: best holiday of my life! I counted: first of many! Were it within my power: it would, it should, it shall.

How could one but love, forever he who found a song like this. For one so struck as I.


The pituitary gland gets torn off its access and frees…

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This entry was posted on November 14, 2012 by in Spring and tagged , , , , , .


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