XVIII.

Oh wow. I let go of my obsession with her a while before Christmas. They still fascinate me, but I’m not thinking of them every day. Still, today I remember that she left a post for New Year’s before she died, and I went to see it. It’s a gorgeous poem by T.S. Eliot, and a link. Follow the link. I won’t say where it leads. Who is behind it? I want to follow it where it will take me. Follow the links from the link. Here’s a bit of the Eliot because it is a beautiful poem:

So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years –
Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l’entre deux guerres
Trying to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it.

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