#november.

My work is loving the world. Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—         equal seekers of sweetness. Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums. Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn? Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me         keep my mind on what matters, which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be         astonished. The phoebe, the delphinium. The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture. Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart         and these body-clothes, a mouth with which to give shouts of joy         to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam, telling them all, over and over, how it is         that we live forever.

— t. s. eliot, murder in the cathedral (1935, harcourt)

[image id: black text on a white background, partially highlighted in yellow (denoted by bold type). it reads:

Since golden October declined into sombre November And the apples were gathered and stored, and the land became brown sharp points of death in a waste of water and mud,

WHEN WILL THE DAY END

WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE DICKHEAD

I HATE YOU EVERYONE HATES YOU

OMFG JUST GO

JUST GO

I HATEEEEEEEEEEE YOU