"Sooner or later, somehow, anyhow, I was bound to write a novel. It seems vain to ask why. Men are born with various manias: from my earliest childhood, it was mine to make a plaything of imaginary series of events; and as soon as I was able to write, I became a good friend to the paper-makers."Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)

Sunday, 8 January 2012

Haiku

*** Removed for consideration ***
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The dark closing in,
Curling around me like fog,
Safety or danger?
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Cracking and clinking,
Cool, clear liquid served over ice,
Sharp bite of lime refreshes.

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