July 13th, 2005


Shakespeare's fourteenth sonnet.

Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck;
And yet, methinks I have astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality:
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And (constant stars) in them I read such art,
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert:
Or else of thee I prognosticate,
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.

(no subject)

You know what I noticed, even if I am ten entries from 500 comments received, I have nearly a thousand posted. Meaning if I responded to each of those 480 I would have about 500 posted elsewhere.

Since when do I comment so much in other people's journals?

Goodness gracious.

Have I become social?