Scattered frost this morning might not augur a winter so cold it lasts until June of next year. That clear night and dry air, with Orion and The Plough just south of the Milky Way. The Sky Blue like an Orange, or was it the Earth is Blue like an Orange. He was a Frenchman, and I say this because he was born in one of the nearly thirty seven thousand communes, or villages or parishes, of Metropolitan France, which includes Corsica. "The Wasps are flowering green." "The dawn is worn around the neck." His first wife ran off with Salvador Dali.
."The fish of anguish." "She is standing on my eyelids." "They make fire from coals, they make men from kisses." "The light is always close to dying." His given name was Eugene Emile Paul Grindel. His other name was Paul Eluard. "On the white bread of days, I write your name." It was during the second world war he found his nuts and bolts. He died in 1952. He has a very nice grave in a large Paris cemetery, his funeral paid for by the Communist Party.
Language, was always the first step out of Eden. And as well, it's the place to go for comfort and joy, when proteins, roughage and pure calories from sugar are not enough. "Yes you look pretty and not in the least like a Polar Bear." And through the generations language has been reduced by what might be called 'discipline,' or 'bundling' or perhaps 'fascism,' a something I'd rather call 'the official in charge of safety.' But whatever its name, it has quite prevented language from absorbing the parameters set for it by both grammarians and dictionaries, spelling tests, or by what so many have reduced to the word 'comp.' An absolutely appalling little word that I think is supposed to reference some part of the word 'comprehension' that's also found in the word 'composition.' And, according to my informants during the break time, 'comp' is a nightmare to pass and I need a hair cut.