“The days aren’t discarded or collected, they are bees that burned with sweetness or maddened the sting: the struggle continues, the journeys go and come between honey and pain. No, the net of years doesn’t unweave: there is no net. They don’t fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river. Sleep doesn’t divide life into halves, or action, or silence, or honor: life is like a stone, a single motion, a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves, an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal that climbs or descends burning in your bones.” ― Pablo Neruda, Still Another Day

had a beautiful visit with my father last month. in his peaceful world. we drank homemade honeymead and sat in the field all day in the sun 
while i read cormac mccarthy and he did the cryptic crossword.  we went eel hunting and ate thai sticky rice for tea every night.
 he lit a fire in the copper for a bath just like when i was a kid...but i accidentally pushed the chimney right off it before i got to have mine!

...just before i broke it!