Tag: sleep

  • 309: Patagonia part 4

    No matter now in what city I find myself, when a cold wind is such that it penetrates to the marrow, and scatters the rain into a melee of fine mist-fall visible under a street light, I can’t help but peering up at the brume be lulled smiling into memories den; down the burning corridors […]

  • 187

    I much enjoy my daily visits with the rising Sun, which greets me from over the yonder each morn with an everlasting cheerful tenderness. Then a gladness washes over my heart, much in the way that sleep overwhelms the consciousness: delicately, and then utterly.

  • 155

    What brings this burgeoning tumult of rapturous insight, the unknowable depths of which into it appears I have not so much fallen as leapt? Like a heretic sentry from his all-seeing, overlooking formation suddenly shot alive with option of startling contrary, and broken the spell of the deepest convictions of his identity; neither with the […]

  • 124: When it rains

    It arrives odd hours my sweeping inspirations; a torrential outpouring that, warrantless rains hard with no remark to my good pattern and springs me from recess semi-witted, into duty. A catch or two o’ the break would keep me in high cheer and portly health for days, and so fretting about the cabin, sought a […]

  • 114: Going

    This is the last night in your own bed for some time, and there is an alveolus melancholy unfolds your repose; when strange pillows will nestle ambling thoughts. But you’ve craved long this new trouble, like secrets of saccharose, and must let wash over you its mastery implied. The stars now will hold your dreams, […]

  • 111

    A bounteous day bodes indeed, of splendour whelming and rarefied again, and how thankful I am to have woken none too soon from the scheme of sleep.

  • 107: Maggie

    I broke my adolescence over Maggie Cassidy this past weekend, and until some days, will I be enough to stand and heed the oceans brotherly call, oft where go the great detached on Icarian odysseys of forgetting. It is a good book that makes me read myself after, and gifts a keepsake of genial sameness […]

  • 93

    No Spring will come to whom does not bring it along, nor sleep, whom does not dream.

  • 77: The loveliness of long life

    Few things entreat my curiosity like the uncompelled and contented every man, who sleeps entire nights and no dream after permits to filter unremarkable days. How nice, in some respects, must immortality be.