I walked - that's a given.
J'ai marché - c'est sûr et certain.
J'ai trouvé un évènement dans le magazine NOW: une marche guidée à Toronto pour se rappeler du "Women's Mounted Land Army, 1919". J'ai découvert que cette marche se passait dans mon coin, et, en 15 minutes (ou moins), j'ai décidé de m'y rendre tout habillé en mode hiver et... rien.
Personne. Well, there were people, and it seemed like a walker might have been there for said event, but she continued on her way. There was a backpacker, with patchouli backpacks and a movable plus-sized basket, but he continued along the way.
Je ne regrettes pas m'y être rendu car la neige était follement douce, et marcher comme un pinguin m'a fait du bien.
11/11/19
17/10/19
I'll make my way out of the labyrinth
Inspired by Firewind
Dutifully, I searched for a band starting with the name and, rather, the letter D. Stream-of-consciousness makes me feel like I must keep going forwards, but the lack of english of the anglo kind makes it difficult for me to feel safe online - and offline - any more. Speaking, I mean, writing of/about mores, I am questioning my choice to stick to a sociological inquiry of society.
A clerical use of paragraphical grammar makes it easy for me to claim that I know how to write. I refuse to cite sounds. I refuse to cite sights. I refuse to cite optics, and I refuse to cite memory. How will Broca's area survive the lattice?
Find out next time on another renaming of A kaleidoughscope of writings, the first time, ladies and gentlemen (now it gets difficult), that I refuse to bow down to people that sound like machines.
No more pretending to be a king, no more princes then.
Dutifully, I searched for a band starting with the name and, rather, the letter D. Stream-of-consciousness makes me feel like I must keep going forwards, but the lack of english of the anglo kind makes it difficult for me to feel safe online - and offline - any more. Speaking, I mean, writing of/about mores, I am questioning my choice to stick to a sociological inquiry of society.
A clerical use of paragraphical grammar makes it easy for me to claim that I know how to write. I refuse to cite sounds. I refuse to cite sights. I refuse to cite optics, and I refuse to cite memory. How will Broca's area survive the lattice?
Find out next time on another renaming of A kaleidoughscope of writings, the first time, ladies and gentlemen (now it gets difficult), that I refuse to bow down to people that sound like machines.
No more pretending to be a king, no more princes then.
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