Monday, January 16, 2017

January 16, 2017

MLK Day. Going to see Fences.

About right.

An old picture.

I've noticed this sonnet before. It's a good one, especially since I'm getting older.


When my love swears that she is made of truth
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told:
Therefore I lie with her and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.

The return of Moriarty, in a flashback, blasting Queen's I Want To Break Free was the best part of Sherlock last night.

Coupon and an additional 20% off got me this one. Read about it first in the New Yorker.

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