DeepFrequency and QuietStorm

Words on a page. Snow blind staring at empty pages. Black, ink, the color behind closed eyes. All held in limbo, behind a dam.       Ancient ruins in the rear-view mirror of miss-spent youth indelible ink stained, with rye. Grain from the field tortured by a man into a liquid in brown glass and poured down the open throat of the unsuspecting youth ready to become a man. Dizzy flight. Longer than ever expected, even after the morning after church prayers for forgiveness. 53. My number given by this calendar. Born under the "bad" sign. 19,666 days to come out from under the shadow of this brown glass into the cover of sunshining  glass, clear and shinning like gold. And my Father's hand takes mine and holds it, and I hold it back. That is today.

Nobody ever invented  a bigger rock, who had not first been hit by a big rock.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only. [5 c.dickens.