Tuesday, February 3, 2015


Could doomsday come on such a sunny day, when the wind caressed the trees so softly, when the birds sang so timid and sweet, when pianos tinkled out of the house so sensitively? Could the bomb or the acid rain truly fall at such a moment, or would it by paralysed by the beauty of the world, forced to hover in mid-air and slowly retreat like a man who has seen his sweet virginal betrothed turned into a lusty, night-walking creature of the undead? I certainly hope it can wait a little longer anyway. Go have a smoke, doomsday. Go have a smoke and read a magazine.

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