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Writing is to descend like a miner to the depths of the mine with a lamp on your forehead, a light whose dubious brightness falsifies everything, whose wick is in permanent danger of explosion, whose blinking illumination in the coal dust exhausts and corrodes your eyes.
-- Blaise Cendrars

 

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Today's Beauty

 

Along a bike path in Grimes lie the cottonwood seed, like snow. Pretty cool.

 


by Brett Rogers, 5/5/2012 7:02:14 AM
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