I love a clean slate. I like nothing as much as I like a clean slate, even if it means erasing a tonne of beautiful memories: photos, texts, any sign of personality. There's one very hard moment when you do it, but it feels healthy and refreshing the moment it's done, and I watch with interest if there is anything to build upon without the evidence of past moments. It feels fine to move on too if there isn't.
Milton is beautiful with it. Fancy, me, the illiterate, holding Milton as a talisman:
'Thus sang the uncouth swain to th'oaks and rills,
While the still morn went out with sandals gray;
He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay;
And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills,
And now was dropp'd into the western bay;
At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue:
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.'
I have always loved the uncouth swain who twitches his mantle blue and moves on. I imagine that he smiles.
Milton is beautiful with it. Fancy, me, the illiterate, holding Milton as a talisman:
'Thus sang the uncouth swain to th'oaks and rills,
While the still morn went out with sandals gray;
He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay;
And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills,
And now was dropp'd into the western bay;
At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue:
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.'
I have always loved the uncouth swain who twitches his mantle blue and moves on. I imagine that he smiles.
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