Still funny in my opinion: Who reads the newspapers?
Even funnier (generic tattoo, but for eggheads….the kinds of people visiting France for a week in college expecting to run America someday): Yes, that’s a Chinese brothel.
Forget LLMs, and neural modeling. ‘You can do anything‘ at Zombo.com
Thanks for looking. Happy Holidays.
As posted: (it’s a long one): ‘Postmodern Religion And The Faith Of Social Justice‘
My favorite prophet..
Swim in the warm bath of the (S)elf. Float in the bowl of Romantic Nature.
Freedom is next at Peace Pavilion West.
Merry Christmas!
From Thomas Carlyle? J.P. Morgan? Teddy Roosevelt?
“A man always has two reasons for what he does—a good one, and the real one.”
Men At Forty
Men at forty
Learn to close softly
The doors to rooms they will not be
Coming back to.
At rest on a stair landing,
They feel it moving
Beneath them now like the deck of a ship,
Though the swell is gentle.
And deep in mirrors
They rediscover
The face of the boy as he practises tying
His father’s tie there in secret
And the face of the father,
Still warm with the mystery of lather.
They are more fathers than sons themselves now.
Something is filling them, something
That is like the twilight sound
Of the crickets, immense,
Filling the woods at the foot of the slope
Behind their mortgaged houses.
—
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
It’s all practice, I guess.
Thanks for looking.
—
The Snow Man
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
Thanks for looking.
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