Think how it wakes the seeds- Woke once the clays of a cold star Are limbs, so dear achieved, are sides Full-nerved, still warm, too hard to stir? Was it for this the clay grew tall? -O what made fatuous sunbeams toil To break earth’s sleep at all?
Short Story
WOMAN IN A TIGHT GREY SUIT
“What is now proved was once only imagined.” ― William Blake A story by Michael Burns It was one of those, afternoons. Sitting at a small café, light diffused, not quite there — surreal. Light waiting to happen. On the edge of waiting to happen…ready.
don't worry you can change this later 
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