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Wednesday, May 15, 2002 Waiting for the Shuttle Outside, the night sticks to the skin, soft, sticky, and intimate. The air is a heavy breath crowding the ears. Sometimes stars appear. Other times, there is no light except for the faint shading--a patchwork quilt of clouds--that indicate a break above. Time stands still. Most people are asleep, suspended animation, mannequins wrapped in blankets. The shadows lurking next to the lamppost skitter and innervate the surrounding foliage with sharp fingers. Only the hiccuping of crickets cut the air. Other stuff: The top 100 books of all time. I feel like an illiterate cad. I've only read 15. Alan Boyle: Cosmic Log. (via Metafilter) Link heavy and not all that much commentary. But hey, give the guy a break. He just started. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 2:51 AM : ]
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