Sometimes an anchor drops,
all the way to the dark,
cold calmness of the
abyssal plain, and distrubs
the stillness of centuries
by throwing up a cloud
of silt. One nearly hit
Anghammarad, where he
sat watching the ships
drift by, far overhead.
He remembered it, because
it was the only really
interesting thing to happen
in the last nine thousand
years.
1 Comments:
interesting that you decided to put these kinda things down... I'm glad at least you haven't bothered to do the whole
"hi today my life is _______"
so props to that, or maybe I'm utterly as pretentious and full of philosophical BS as you are.
http://anewpageforme.livejournal.com/
hopefully you'll deign to leave a reply
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