March 19th, 2003


Mutter, introspection, mutter.

Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?
Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the medow;
The days have gone down in the West, behind the hills into shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,
Or behold the flowing years from the sea returning?

Makes it easy to see why Tolkien was a Luddite, doesn't it?

There is a Does the irony amuse anyone else?

Ooh. SC plotbunny. *scurries away*
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"The only thing more dangerous than a man with a gun is a man with a gun and honest eyes."

Doesn't entirely apply, but oh, well.