Trucks!!!

To Sleep

O soft embalmer of the still midnight,

Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,

Our gloom-pleas'd eyes, embower'd from the light,

Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:

O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close

In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes,

Or wait the "Amen," ere thy poppy throws

Around my bed its lulling charities.

Then save me, or the passed day will shine

Upon my pillow, breeding many woes,--

Save me from curious Conscience, that still lords

Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;

Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,

And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.

By John Keats

Liquid Arts!!

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Amazing Roads

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"What other problem Can there be greater than this one?

Wife: You always carry my photo in your handbag to the office. Why? Darling : When there is a problem, no matter how impossible, I look at your picture and the problem disappears. Wife: You see, how miraculous and powerful I am for you? Darling : Yes, I see your picture and say to myself, "What other problem Can there be greater than this one?

Three patients

Three patients in a mental institution prepare for an examination given by the head psychiatrist. If the patients pass the exam, they will be free to leave the hospital. However, if they fail, the institution will detain them for seven years. The doctor takes the three patients to the top of a diving board overlooking an empty swimming pool, and asks the first patient to jump. The first patient jumps head first into the pool and breaks both arms. Then the second patient jumps and breaks both legs. The third patient looks over the side and refuses to jump. "Congratulations! You're a free man. Just tell me why didn't you jump?" asked the doctor. To which the third patient answered, "Well Doc, I can't swim!"

Portrait of a Lady

Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon

You have the scene arrange itself--as it will seem to do--

With "I have saved this afternoon for you";

And four wax candles in the darkened room,

Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead,

An atmosphere of Juliet's tomb

Prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid.

We have been, let us say, to hear the latest Pole

Transmit the Preludes, through his hair and finger-tips.

"So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul

Should be resurrected only among friends

Some two or three, who will not touch the bloom

That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room."

--And so the conversation slips

Among velleities and carefully caught regrets

Through attenuated tones of violins

Mingled with remote cornets

And begins.

"You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends,

And how, how rare and strange it is, to find

In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends,

(For indeed I do not love it ... you knew? you are not blind!

How keen you are!)

To find a friend who has these qualities,

Who has, and gives

Those qualities upon which friendship lives.

How much it means that I say this to you--

Without these friendships--life, what cauchemar!"

Among the windings of the violins

And the ariettes

Of cracked cornets

Inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins

Absurdly hammering a prelude of its own,

Capricious monotone

That is at least one definite "false note."

--Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance,

Admire the monuments

Discuss the late events,

Correct our watches by the public clocks.

Then sit for half an hour and drink our bocks.