Rain in the western quadrant,
wind in black leather
over the darkening hills,
matching my mood.
Preoccupation.
May it be with such lines as i make,
not with making a living by getting,
and just maybe a line will last,
for money never will.
What of it?
I'll see you beyond the next ridge,
all of us naked and coinless,
or maybe we're nothing at all.
wind in black leather
over the darkening hills,
matching my mood.
Preoccupation.
May it be with such lines as i make,
not with making a living by getting,
and just maybe a line will last,
for money never will.
What of it?
I'll see you beyond the next ridge,
all of us naked and coinless,
or maybe we're nothing at all.
There is this. There is this.
—The ways by which you may get money all lead downward.
Thoreau, Aug. 7, 1853
