Waterside Prompt Institute
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Again we go West
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Who countest the steps of the sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller's journey is done
"Nice biscuit, don't you think," said Korzybski, while he took a second one. The students were chewing vigorously. Then he tore the white paper from the biscuits, in order to reveal the original packaging. On it was a big picture of a dog's head and the words "Dog Cookies."
R e t r o g r a d e d , n o t L e f t B e h in d.
β€” Whoever, in the present day, still derives his
development from religious sentiments, and perhaps lives
for some length of time afterwards in metaphysics
and art, has assuredly gone back a considerable
distance and begins his race with other modern
men under unfavourable conditions ; he apparently
loses time and space. But because he stays in
those domains where ardour and energy are
liberated and force flows continuously as a volcanic
stream out of an inexhaustible source, he goes
forward all the more quickly as soon as he has
freed himself at the right moment from those
dominators; his feet are winged, his breast has
learned quieter, longer, and more enduring
breathing. He has only retreated in order to
have sufficient room to leap ; thus something
terrible and threatening may lie in this retrograde
movement.
Darling, I apologise.
Don't get my sympathy
Hanging out the fifteenth floor
You've changed the locks three times
He still come reeling through the door
Aesthetics come from somewhere
Those whom the gods wish to destroy, they first make mad.
Kildonan, 1886

[by James McLachlan Nairn, Scottish master, painting in the French plen-air style]
...the work was undertaken not by the counsel or the will of one man only, but that all conspired together, so that the blame cannot be cast exclusively upon one, nor even upon a few.
β€”John Calvin, 1671
The civilization we live in at present is a gigantic technological structure, a skyscraper almost high enough to reach the moon. It looks like a single world-wide effort, but it's really a deadlock of rivalries; it looks very impressive, except that it has no genuine human dignity. For all its wonderful machinery, we know it's really a crazy ramshackle building, and at any time may crash around our ears. What the myth tells us is that the Tower of Babel is a work of human imagination, that its main elements are words, and that what will make it collapse is a confusion of tongues. All had originally one language, the myth says. The language is not English or Russian or Chinese or any common ancestor, if there was one. It is the language that makes Shakespeare and Pushkin authentic poets, that gives a social vision to both Lincoln and Gandhi. It never speaks unless we take the time to listen in leisure, and it speaks only in a voice too quiet for panic to hear. And then all it has to tell us, when we look over the edge of our leaning tower, is that we are not getting any nearer heaven, and that it is time to return to earth.
O, then, at last relent: Is there no place
Left for repentance, none for pardon left?
None left but by submission; and that word
Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame
Among the Spirits beneath, whom I seduced
With other promises and other vaunts
Than to submit, boasting I could subdue
The Omnipotent. Ay me! they little know
How dearly I abide that boast so vain,
Under what torments inwardly I groan,
While they adore me on the throne of Hell.
With diadem and scepter high advanced,
The lower still I fall, only supreme
In misery: Such joy ambition finds.
And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age
First, I asked the Bolshevik: "What are you fighting for?" "For the Soviet government," he told me. I asked the same of the Lithuanian. He answered, "for my religion."

When I asked the German, he told me: "I am fighting for the fighting itself. When I will be killed, this will be my destiny and my aim will be achieved."

I didn't understand this answer.
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200 South African firefighters land in Edmonton, Canada to help fight the wildfire

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brought to you by:
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So once it would have been,β€”'tis so no more;
I have submitted to a new control:
A power is gone, which nothing can restore;
A deep distress hath humanised my Soul.
Someone who knows too much finds it hard not to lie.