"the morning is flying on the wings of his age--"

Awake, my sleeper, to the sun,
A worker in the morning town,
And leave the poppied pickthank where he lies;
The fences of the light are down,
All but the briskest riders thrown
And worlds hang on the trees.

Dylan Thomas

Funny how we go through our days not knowing what they can possibly mean to anyone else. Here, a death. November 9, 1953. That makes...56 years? Is that it? A lifetime after a life's time.

Don't worry Dylan, when it starts raining again and I feel like seeing the world from the bottom of a whiskey bottle, and all the joys seem suffocating and all the grieves noble, all the melancholy in the world that you so cruelly made so beautiful--- I'll remember you again. And it'll be like you died just today.