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Reply to "Finally getting to my “Winter Projects”"

@Sacto Mitch posted:

.I like to tell myself I'm not turning into that wrinkly gent in the straw skimmer hunched over the wheel and squinting out the windscreen, with only foggy notions of where the road ahead might lie.

But, slowly, I guess that could be happening to me.

Whatever the reason, this is the first sporting machine I've owned in which I'm not crawl-the-walls impatient if the way forward is blocked by one of those gents - under the speed limit and still lighting the brake lights at every corner. These days, I just back off, drop down a gear, and enjoy the view or the weather.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.



I'm a go to Brevard and git me arrested! Carlos said he'd bring me BBQ.

Last edited by Stan Galat
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