If Denver’s game plan was to turn the ball over, miss tackles, allow a :12 KO return & safety, & otherwise be a non-existent part of #SB48, then job well done.
My industrial surroundings of bare brick walls, paneled wood ceilings and concrete floors keep me ensconced in a cocoon of safety from the world outside.
The unseemingly obtrusive obstacles that lurk beyond my safe haven seem daunting at best. While their complexities aren’t one to cause alarm, however, their simple existence forges my apathy for them.
The bright burst of light that is waiting to suffocate me once I cross into its boundaries forces my eyes to strain; the deafening sounds of everyday life - the vociferous bantering of passerbyers, the hollowed screams of car horns, and the constant drumming of roadwork - seem too much to bare.
I’m safe here…
Safe inside this dwelling of turquoise blues, earthy browns, and dulled greys.
The omniscient, pulsating sound of unambiguous music, lyrics and tones drift overhead. It draws you up, and holds you within its knowing embrace. The light, ominous sounds create a sense of tranquility, comfort and peace that shields me from the perilous world that abounds me.
My heart beats in unison.
I know this superficial reality that I have created will come to an end, soon. Just like everything in this world does. The inevitability of destruction knows no bounds.
I too will be bound by its destructive forces.
I too will have to face the unwanted actuality that reality holds.
Time will call me home, pulling me from my protective cocoon, obliging me to cross the boundaries that I fear the most. The boundaries that I long to avoid.
I like to think of the fortunes inside of fortune cookies as tiny little lies written by a self loathing optimist who couldn’t find work as a writer
Went to fill up a gallon of water, had 2 dimes & a nickel. The water machine only accepted quarters. No problem, I used the Coke vending machine to make change.
From 1970 to 1976, Cincinnati’s “Big Red Machine” averaged 98 wins per season and won four pennants and two World Series titles (1975 and 1976). The 1976 team featured the “Great Eight” starting position players of Johnny Bench, Pete Rose, Joe Morgan, Tony Perez, Dave Concepcion, George Foster, Ken Griffey and Cesar Geronimo. Some consider that lineup to be the best lineup ever. When the “Great Eight” started together, the team had a .784 winning percentage.
I may’ve had too many glasses of vino, on this, the day of St. Valentine. But what’s wrong with taking part in good ol’ Americana: #Overindulgence.
With #Kentucky’s Nerlen Noel tearing his ACL, the debate of whether or not players should be able to enter the #NBA #draft out of middle school will only intensify.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door—“‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, “‘Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, “Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?” This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping some what louder than before. “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what there at is, and this mystery explore—Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—’Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door—Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as”Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did out pour. Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.” Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, “Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of’ Never—nevermore.’”
But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gauntand ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er, She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, me thought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee Respite—respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore; Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting—"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore!