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June 3, 2016

Dear God, make me hard to kill.

There is no plan. There are only men and their ambitions against the winds of chance and the women who motivate. There is love and duty, always attempting at truth and beauty. There are those who fail and stagger back to standing. We, facing recklessly the indifference of mediocrity, push our little pushes and trim our little rose bushes. Dear God, make me hard to kill. Let me tend to this garden of life. Fifteenmore, thirty more, ninety-five years. Let me buy everyone whisky. So cheers. Fifty Five - Cobb

Posted by gerardvanderleun at June 3, 2016 5:12 PM. This is an entry on the sideblog of American Digest: Check it out.

Your Say

Pure poetry. Lovely.

Posted by: Joan of Argghh! at June 3, 2016 5:41 PM

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