Were my camera not in the shop for repair, today's photo would look a lot like this:
If you're going to have that much LA in January, then why not a little more. I was perusing a little bit of Bukowski last night and here an excerpt of is his poem "quiet in a quiet night."
(note: a posthumous publication from a guy who knows he's dying.)
"I can feel myself getting fat, old, and
I wheeze putting on my shoes.
I am no longer sure if I have years
left, months left, weeks left,
or is the last minute is arrowing
this bottle of 1983
Saint-Emilion Grand Cru Classe
still rings the damned gong,
at least I've avoided sitting around
with the other old farts
sorting out unprecious
the young are no help either,
they are shining mirrors without
"this is an excellent wine.
it connects me with infinity.
a man without wine is like a fish without
a bird without wings.
wine runs in the blood of the tiger
"it is a beautiful night."