They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead,
They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.
I wept as I remembered how often you and I
Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.
And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest,
A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest,
Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake;
For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.
Tuesday, October 13, 2015
It's not easy being an American abroad. Between being peppered with questions about politics and having your feet stick off the en...
After graduation, Christopher and I left Chicago in the van from our recently defunct band and set out on the ghost road to California -- tw...
The auto-detect feature of Google Translate identifies Faroese as Icelandic. That's understandable, as Faroese and Icelandic share uniqu...