well, not proof exactly perhaps
but as close as i need; yesterday,
i wanted to post about this book
i wanted to say something about
how important books are for
children, how important poetry
is for life, how important good
art is for the soul. how important
it is to make pudding out of pencil
shavings. i love this book; found an
old copy in campbell california in
1991 and gave it to someone i have
great respect for. kept loving it. more.
and the joy it contains means a small
world to me. so, this morning, seeing
it here (please go and comment, you'd
love a copy of your own, i think) it...
well, it just seemed to me that random
is never really random. here's the post
i meant to write, and here's a better
version. thank you, Burgin Streetman.
title quote: Burgin Streetman,
with love
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