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Heart & home

Called Darkside this evening when I got the chance. 35 minutes of alternate giggling, blank silence, and babbling. He's a fanboy; I'm a fangirl. Thus, his "But how can anyone ever out-Shatner Shatner?" had me in stitches.

Work. Writers group. Life. Sunburns. #lj_support -- is that a support group for the LJ-addicted? Barf. Puns. Bad, bad puns.

... and what I'd longed for most, without knowing it? The inability to pry ourselves off the phone with each other without a crowbar. We had almost bid each other farewell when the puns attacked, and we stayed talking for that extra five minutes, punctuated with silence, before we finally let go.




I feel myself slipping into that place where social connections ossify and the old become the only, by dint of a hardness of the outer layer of soul. This, I know, is the precursor to a hardening of the imagination and mind.

I must not let that happen, but I must not allow myself to be worn away by ducks.

In the light of his eyes, I do not fear my weaknesses.
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead.
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together
Leaving weyrs to wind and weather,
Setting herdbeasts free of tether;
Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh why the empty weyr?

-- "The Question Song", Anne McCaffrey
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