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I lay under the buckthorn tree. My soul was enchanted. I looked up through its leaves. The sun was coloring them a briljant yellow. They stood out from their delicate red stems, laughing at the sky. And the sky was deep blue with one small cloud. And the blue was a glorious contrast to the yellow of the leaves. And the wind came and played with them, turning them over so that I could see their shiny upper surfaces. And the wind came down to me, too, bringing me armfuls of sweet fragrance. The buckthorn was in blossom and that was the prettiest thing about it. Its scenty filled the soft air and covered me in a dream, tenderly, ans sang to my soul a tale of times before I ever was, and of times when I shall be no more..
Paula Modersohn-Becker
That means I'll have to use $ans to suppress newlines now.Life is ridiculous.
Larry Wall
Whatever became of Kurt Schwitters' novel 'Franz Müllers Drahtfrühling' [Franz Müller's Wire Spring] several chapters of which we composed together? Is it buried under the bomb ruins of his house on Waldhausenstrasse in Hannover? For hours, Schwitters and I sat together and spun dialogue, in rhapsody. He took these writings and channeled them into his novel...We sat together again, writing 'Franz Müllers Drahtfrühling': H. A.: The nightingales have had enough of your hymnal Karagösen. Play violin on parrots, but avoid the women red hood ans snow widow. K. Schw.: Should I pe-trify something for you? Or would you like play cry together? H. A.: Should we wash our tears or drown them? K. Schw.: You are a sipsnipper, Since when do your diamonds bark? H. A.: The water is getting hard. A fruit cries out loud and gives birth to a fish. K. Schw.: I'll p-ut it in the sea, or should I st-ab you with it?
Jean Arp