also, as a random aside, i despise the sound of snoring

Thanks to musings leading from the latest xkcd comic, I realized that children born the year I started college are now the age to themselves go to college. I hate time, and I have a headache.

abuse of real poetry

Trip to B&N to get Mom away from chemicals while the house was being cleaned, read through the book Poetry in Motion (also a volume of Dylan Thomas' and Wislawa Symborska's). Discovered the following which very much resonated, considering my feelings on the hours of 2-4am and my times of being awake then:

Four in the Morning

The hour from night to day.
The hour from side to side.
The hour for those past thirty.

The hour swept clean to the crowing of cocks.
The hour when earth betrays us.
The hour when wind blows from extinguished stars.
The hour of and-what-if-nothing-remains-after-us.

The hollow hour.
Blank, empty.
The very pit of all other hours.

No one feels good at four in the morning.
If ants feel good at four in the morning--
three cheers for the ants. And let five o'clock come
if we're to go on living.

--Wislawa Szymborska, translated from the Polish by Magnus J. Krynski and Robert A. Maguire

( in which I am failame and connect Dylan Thomas poetry to S. Winchester )