an image diary

"And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be? ... You'd be nowhere. Why, you're only a sort of thing in his dream! If that there King was to wake you'd go out -- bang! -- just like a candle!"

"Hush! You'll be waking him, I'm afraid, if you make so much noise."

"Well it's no use your talking about waking him when you're only one of the things in his dream. You know very well you're not real."

Thursday, August 4, 2005

August 4, 1792--

July 8, 1822

And there the body lay, age after age,
Mute, breathing, beating, warm and undecaying
Like one asleep in a green hermitage
With gentle smiles about its eyelids playing
And living in its dreams beyond the rage
Of death or life, while they were still arraying
In liveries ever new, the rapid, blind
And fleeting generations of mankind. (LXXI.609-616)

Happy birthday, Shelley. You're 213 today.

Weird. You're so weird.


Leave flowers on his grave.


"and what is the use of a book...without pictures or conversations?"

[contact me:]

what o'clock it is


live flowers