I just read World War Z by Max Brooks. Thumbs up. There will be a movie, right?
Of course, now I can't sleep ever again.
Of course, now I can't sleep ever again.
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"Your Uncle Michael, on the other hand, has a large nature."
"And an even larger bank balance."
This was not worthy of a reply. It was true that I valued Michael's friendship highly, and Rebecca's not a wit, but I liked to think there was more to it than money. But then, I liked to think the world venerated poets and one day wars would end and television personalities be wiped out by a fatal virus. Between what I liked to think, and the cold state of things, fell one hell of a shadow.
"The point is, you can't start a poem with wanting to write about some capital-letter idea like Purity or Love or Beauty. A poem is made of real words, real things. You start with the base, physical world and your own base, physical self. If some meaning or beauty comes out of it, then that is, I suppose, the wonder of art."