Jane Austen Always


Literature was not born the day when a boy crying “wolf, wolf” came running out of the Neanderthal valley with a big gray wolf at his heels: literature was born the day when a boy came crying “wolf, wolf” and there was no wolf behind him.

How Easy?

November 26, 2021

Dreams but still breathing
Breathing but still dying
Dying in my sighs
Sighs that are filled with fear
Fear of losing
Losing to the crowd.
Crowd is crushing the little child
Child that loves simple things
Things that make him happy
Happy were his eyes
Eyes that visioned a dream


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  • November 26, 2021 - 1:05pm (Now Viewing)

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