deviantkupo

Stefan A Biography Stefan was born on 27 June 1885, a Saturday, his mother remembers well. That evening her contractions had still been fairly light and it seemed his birth would not be taking place until at least the next morning, when the visiting local parish priest suddenly raised an objection to the course of events. "There shall be no labour on Sundays," he had warned with a stern look on his face, admonishing her to hurry along. Stefan however, just getting ready for his daily after-dinner game of umbilliards in the uteresidence that he had grown so attached to over the past nine months, showed no intention to leave just yet. This u

On the twentieth day of July 69, For the first time in history, The moon landed on a man. The first time such move had been attempted by a celestial body, A great feat of precision, Didn't crush the man at all. You see, we see things from our eyes, And everyone knows our eyes see upside down. Or is that the right way up? I could tell you about walking through deserts, The beauty of running water, of rain, You'd be thinking of TV shows. When was the last time you were challenged, Walked away from a conversation stunned. Who are you listening to, me or yourself? If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Is meaning in the eye of t

Sunshine studying - you write to me and my eyes dance in some haphazard tango on your ink-laden rays. "Interesting", I reply, and I smile. "I'm just getting gibberish here" and I smile. You haven't  stopped writing and I haven't  stopped reading, but  I don't understand a word of your ampersand, box, box, mic; of your dot, resistor, phi. I don't understand a word of your sans-serif wingding rays.