Walt Whitman (1819-1892)
Word over all, beautiful as the sky,
Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage must in time be utterly lost,
That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash again, and ever again, this soiled world;
For my enemy is dead, a man divine as myself is dead,
I look where he lies white-faced and still in the coffin--I draw near,
Bend down and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the coffin.
I have written ~4,907 words since 1 pm. "Overkill" is finished, in a very ragged draft.
This means I have to do absolutely nothing tomorrow... er, today... except float about the house being drained, do the post-mortem for CM 3x11, and--if I am not snowed the hell in, which seems unlikely--go to archery.
Oh, and I can watch some of the preciousssss.
Friday, I have to revise "King Pole, Gallows Pole, Bottle Tree."
Hey, take your vacation where you can get it.