This blog might remain silent for the rest of the year. There are promises to keep, and time is running out.
On the other hand, it might be that I'm saying this aloud so that I will be compelled to contradict myself and post, post, post, even though there's nothing to say.
You decide which it is.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
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12 comments:
My vote is post. But what do I know? I guess it depends on the nature of the promises you have to keep, the number of miles you have to go before you sleep--and how hard the snow is coming down at the moment.
Best of luck
'Jaanta hun savaab-e-taa'at-o-zuhd
Par tabiat idhar nahi aati'
I realise the merit of obedience and abstinence
But the temperament doesn't incline this way
I find myself throwing Ghalib at you all the time these days. Whachoodoin pa?
Time flies like an arrow, fruit flies like a banana.
We should alternate non-posting periods of time. That way both of us get to only read or write, and we don't have to do both.
* Time flies like lightning..
Enough drama. Post now.
All the time in flight references make me want to quote Khayyam
One thing is certain,
And the rest are lies and you walk,
And one thing is certain:
Time flies!
The rose that has bloomed
Once now forever dies.
In keeping with the entirely irrelevant poetry quotes:
"HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME"
hb: you never know what might happen - stay tuned!
shweta: nothing very earth-shattering, re. i need to find new places where you can fling ghalib around, huh?
km: that's from an alternate version of lochinvar?
??!: lightning flies? i didn't know what.
veena: what would you do without the drama i provide from time to time?
bm: sheesh!
falsie: no no! you can do better than that.
and all: this is what it takes to get you out of the woodwork? it restores my faith in frivolity. from now until the end of the year, there will be fluff!
SB: Well, if you want a truly apt quote -
"Post o're land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."
//I know, I know, blindingly obvious.
Be contrary and post soon.
post, pliss.
Lochinvar? Try Groucho Marx.
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