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The sheep coughed in the rough, sere grass of the park, where frost lay bluish in the sockets of the tufts. Across the park ran a path to the wood- gate, a fine ribbon of pink. —D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover, 1928.
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Saint Garrison Patron of Backpack Guarding.
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Toward the end of the afternoon, a mauve mist veils the avenues so that you do not know where they end, and the unexpected discovery of a wild hyacinth, with its three slender bells of artless blue swaying in the wind, has all the charm of a stolen joy. —Collette, The Vagabond; translated by Enid McLeod, 1955.
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"I write so as not to be written. For many years I was written in my life, I acted out a story. I suppose I write in order to write others, to operate on the imagination, the revelation, the knowledge of others." —Fogwill, qtd. in Bartleby & Co. by Enrique Vila-Matas (an author well-worth investigating!) --- Jeff writes: "I write so as not to be written." Only eight words, yet they so fluently describe the root of life's discontent: a part in an obtuse play written for sitcom audiences and household pets. No offense intended toward the pets.
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From Prof. Oddfellow's sketchbook:
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| Did You Hear the One I Just Made Up? |
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Where the blue of the night / Meets the gold of the day, / Someone waits for me. —Bing Crosby, Roy Turk & Fred Ahlert, "Where the Blue of the Night," 1931.
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Original Content Copyright © 2026 by Craig Conley. All rights reserved.
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