10.31.2008
10.30.2008
10.29.2008
10.28.2008
while you work i am busy writing this
INT. HALLWAY DAY
Casey walks down a hallway further into the nursing home, passing several residents.
Another chair-bound ELDERLY WOMAN has her hand on the railing attached to the wall.
ELDERLY WOMAN
Blueberries.
She reaches her shriveled hand out toward Casey.
ELDERLY WOMAN
Blueeberrriess.
Casey pulls away.
CASEY
I'm sorry.
Elderly woman begins to whimper.
ELDERLY WOMAN
Blueeeberriess!!!
Casey walks down a hallway further into the nursing home, passing several residents.
Another chair-bound ELDERLY WOMAN has her hand on the railing attached to the wall.
ELDERLY WOMAN
Blueberries.
She reaches her shriveled hand out toward Casey.
ELDERLY WOMAN
Blueeberrriess.
Casey pulls away.
CASEY
I'm sorry.
Elderly woman begins to whimper.
ELDERLY WOMAN
Blueeeberriess!!!
10.25.2008
10.21.2008
10.19.2008
10.17.2008
"It's terrible sometimes, inside," he said, "that's what's the trouble. You walk these streets, black and funky and cold, and there's not really a living ass to talk to, and there's nothing shaking, and there's no way of getting it out--that storm inside. You can't talk it and you can't make love with it, and when you finally try to get with it and play it, you realize nobody's listening. So you've go to listen. You got to find a way to listen."
10.16.2008
10.14.2008
Those Winter Sundays
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking,
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?
-Robert Hayden
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking,
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?
-Robert Hayden
10.13.2008
10.11.2008
10.09.2008
10.08.2008
10.04.2008
10.01.2008
sometimes this
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