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Topic: Birchen Edge


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  ::: wood s lot ::: June 16 - 30, 2005
That the spoken or written word, reducing distances, providing names for the unnamable, unthinkable, might throw back the edges of the darkness.
He then flies to art, and puts on a periwig, valuing himself upon an unnatural bundle of hairs, all covered with powder, that never grew on his head.
But now should this our broomstick pretend to enter the scene, proud of those birchen spoils it never bore, and all covered with dust, though the sweepings of the finest lady's chamber, we should be apt to ridicule and despise its vanity.
www.ncf.carleton.ca /~ek867/2005_06_16-30_archives.html   (9092 words)

  
 The Confessions of Aleister Crowley
I found myself at MorĂȘt, on the edge of the Forest of Fountainebleau, with nothing to do but wait.
I did not throw up the sponge in passionate despair as I had done once before, to my shame --- I had been rapped sufficiently hard on the knuckles to cure me of that --- but I said to the gods: "Observe, I have done my damnedest and here I am at a dead centre.
Luckily, his hair was very long, so that I could knock his head on the edge of a stair whenever he tried to break away.
www.hermetic.com /crowley/confess/chapter65.html   (7551 words)

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