Here's rattling good luck and roaring good cheer, / With lashings of food and great hogsheads of beer. […]” 2013 July 20, “Out of the gloom”, in The Economist, volume 408, number 8845: [Rural solar plant] schemes are of little help to industry or other heavy users of ...
it has no idea what it’s going to do between words. The tool puts down one word at a time, what it deems to be the best fit, with some randomization for realism’s sake, and then runs the logic again for the next word, always bouncing its progress off of the prompt and the wea...
And morning eyes, And lips whose thread of scarlet prophesies The canticles of a coming king unknown, Remember, when you join him On his throne, Even me, your far off troubadour, And wear For me some trifling rose Beneath your veil, ...
Wednesday evening, team outing, a place called Bedford Stuyvesant in Brooklyn but could be anywhere. I liked it. The best bit was the rattling subway over the Manhattan Bridge with Patrick, a here-i-am feeling with the evening sun shining off the East River and the skyscrapers to the south...
After a great interval of time he became aware that he was near the lower edge of the snow. Below, down what was now a moon-lit and practicable slope, he saw the dark and broken appearance of rock-strewn turf He struggled to his feet, aching in ...
ll need desert appropriate clothing. And masks and spell-punk style googles. And tents. And plenty of firewood because the desert gets cold at night. And you’ll need a guide. Someone who knows the desert. And as you start rattling off the list to the party, the GM stops you and ...
The night before last we were awakened by a stiff earthquake, the rattling of everything in the house woke us, and then we felt the tremors… we went back to sleep and slept through the after-shocks… then last night another earthquake… Strange times … first snow, then earthquakes, ...
When I am at Auckland Hospital for my regular checkups, I am stalled by your magnificent awe-rich body-hugging poem, ‘Prayer’. I realise in my prolonged contemplation, what gratitude I feel for your words, for your poems, your plays, your poetry collections, your presence. ...
I bought a pristine copy of ‘The Tale of Jemima Puddle Duck’ in a junk shop for fifty cents the other day. No great grandchildren in the offing to receive it, but rather on account of the nostalgia I felt at the very words Jemima Puddle Duck. ...
directly at him now, but I won’t turn my head away. Instead I fix on the spot on the wall just beyond his left ear, and wait till he’s done. Sometimes he’ll sit there for a few minutes, sometimes much longer. The only sounds are the thundering of my heart and his rattling ...