If every moment is made of moments does every one of those moments require an explanation? Propagandists sniff at the perfumed corpse of the past to carry their own stink into what’s left of the future: Those were the days when… But this most recent was a summer of tipping points, flowers abundant on roadside verges here while north and south polar ice sheets were melting. Can it matter to a nearly blind mole and his black velvet hide that he has all this while been tunnelling through coal spoil? With these out-of-season weathers how am I now to read the rain?
Sam Smith
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