2003-04-03 - 4:31 p.m.

when i climb into bed, i think of:

The Eagle
by Lord Alfred Tennyson

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

because i swear to you i am the very embodiment of that eagle when i occupy the solitary majesty that is my top bunk, except instead of falling i have egyptian cotton sheets. poor eagle, that he may not experience such softness.

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