It's a rainy Monday. Yesterday it was sleeting: pellets of ice tinkling down through blossoming trees and budding branches. A strange time of year, and I feel like I awoke in the middle of the night and have not gone back to sleep again. An in-between time; a liminal place that smells of woodsmoke and rain and ash. And I wonder: what matters? What are the things that are really important?
The Witch
Toil and grow rich,
What's that but to lie
With a foul witch
And after, drained dry,
To be brought
To the chamber where
Lies one sought
With despair.
-- William Butler Yeats
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