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|Name:||the fuckface who holds time itself in his hands|
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
archaeologist, championoftime, chaoticreinvention, luministimods, noblesavage, onehundredbeers, plays, timesbureaucrat, truth_is_cold, umgekehrt, una_persson
[livejournal.com] a-duck-pond, allgiving, archaeologist, brandyhabit, cosmic-engineer, depravare, doctorsfanboy, dreamrecalled, gavesomuch, handysparehand, ofdrumsthesound, onewithideals, practicalrobes, rationare, remainsthetruth, savagestime, screwedbyfate, studentoftime, syllogizesthai, tastefulfashion, theta-epsilon