eternity already happened

Bang, Silence, BANG!
Crowd, Solitude, CROWD!
Nothing, Small, Big, BIG!
speakable-unthinkable: ALL

Nuit Blanche

by Amy Lowell
I want no horns to rouse me up to-night,
And trumpets make too clamorous a ring
To fit my mood, it is so weary white
I have no wish for doing any thing.

A music coaxed from humming strings would please;
Not plucked, but drawn in creeping cadences
Across a sunset wall where some Marquise
Picks a pale rose amid strange silences.

Ghostly and vaporous her gown sweeps by
The twilight dusking wall, I hear her feet
Delaying on the gravel, and a sigh,
Briefly permitted, touches the air like sleet

And it is dark, I hear her feet no more.
A red moon leers beyond the lily-tank.
A drunken moon ogling a sycamore,
Running long fingers down its shining flank.

A lurching moon, as nimble as a clown,
Cuddling the flowers and trees which burn like glass.
Red, kissing lips, I feel you on my gown—
Kiss me, red lips, and then pass—pass.

Music, you are pitiless to-night.
And I so old, so cold, so languorously white.

Witches weren’t so bad.

“The 4-feet-tall weapon, which looks like a cross between a robot and a satellite radar, (it) will be mounted on the ceiling and can swivel. It is remotely controlled by an operator in a separate room who lines up targets with a joystick.”

I’ve been thinking about “joysticks” lately, in context,  it makes for a very interesting piece of iconography.