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You Are Tired (I Think) You are tired, (I think) Of the always puzzle of living and doing; And so am I. Come with me, then, And we'll leave it far and far away— (Only you and I, understand!) You have played, (I think) And broke the toys you were fondest of, And are a little tired now; Tired of things that break, and— Just tired. So am I.
" Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo " is a grammatically valid sentence in American English , used as an example of how homonyms and homophones can be used to create complicated linguistic constructs. It has been discussed in literature since 1972 when the sentence was used by William J. Rapaport , an associate professor at the University at Buffalo . [ 1 ] It was posted to Linguist List by Rapaport in 1992. [ 2 ] It was also featured in Steven Pinker 's 1994 book The Language Instinct as an example of a sentence that is "seemingly nonsensical" but grammatical. Pinker names his student Annie Senghas as the inventor of the sentence. [ 3 ]
" Because I could not stop for Death " is a lyric poem by Emily Dickinson first published posthumously in Poems: Series 1 in 1890. The poem is about Death . Dickinson personifies him (death) as a gentleman caller who takes a leisuirely carriage ride with the poet to her grave.
Commonsense ♠ ♣ © winnie caw 2002 (follow the arrows below for more of winnie caw's whimsy, or click on a link) Puns, More Puns and Jokes Home Page Reflections
With Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince coming out in the U.S. later this week, it's time to out myself as a Slytherin Supporter. Maybe you already knew that. Nothing against Gryffindors - I'm no Voldemort or anything - but I always tend to like the villains a little more than the do-gooders.
English 50 – Intro to Creative Writing: Exercises for Story Writers More Exercises: Write the first 250 words of a short story, but write them in ONE SENTENCE.
“Turn the page of the calendar, watch the ball drop, pop the cork of the champagne, and everything changes.” It took me less than twelve hours to hate-fuck myself into oblivion this year. It took only twelve hours to break my first resolution this time around—twelve short, insignificant hours to mortar and pestle a year’s worth of expectation into a line of disenchantment so thick and potent that Keith Richards would shake his head dismissively before declining. “No thanks,” he’d say, walking toward the door and throwing his coat over his shoulder, “I gave China white its name at an orgy in Beijing, but I’m no fool.” And then he’d be gone. But me?
The term “black ice” is a misnomer. Nothing about the thin layer of ice that forms on roadways when condensation from automotive exhausts freezes is black in any way. If black ice was actually black it would be less dangerous, because in cloaking the medians and texture of asphalt with a solid sheet of black it would provide drivers with a visual alert as to the imminent hazard awaiting them. In actuality, black ice is completely clear, meaning that motorists traversing the Saint Anthony Falls Bridge in Minneapolis during winter are at an increased risk for vehicular accidents, because unlike snowfall, rain, and fog—which announce their intentions to cause harm ostentatiously—no one sees black ice in time.
Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities.