The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathÃ¨d horn.
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I am a psychotherapist and media commentator. I'm interested in consciousness, awakeness, light, laughter, intelligence,entertainment,politics, and talking about how the media spins the stories we hear; how the media directs our feeling states and (more...
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