O, Tempora! O, Mores! (E.A.P.)

O, Times! O, Manners! It is my opinion That you are changing sadly your dominion — I mean the reign of manners hath long ceased, For men have none at all, or bad at least; And as for times, altho’ ’tis said by many The “good old times” were far the worst of any, Of which sound doctrine l believe each tittle, Yet still I think these worse than them a little. I’ve been a thinking — isn’t that the phrase? — I like your Yankee words and Yankee ways — I’ve been a thinking, whether it were best To take things seriously, or all in jest; Whether, with grim Heraclitus of yore, To weep, as he did, till his eyes were sore, Or rather laugh with him, that queer philosopher, Democritus of Thrace, who used to toss over The page of life and grin at the dog-ears, As though he’d say, “Why, who the devil cares?” This is a question which, oh heaven, withdraw The luckless query from a member’s claw! Instead of two sides, Bob has nearly eight, Each fit to furnish forth four hours debate. What shall be done?...
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Journals (Archive)

Please don't open us up for all the world to see.
She isn't yet ready for the way her heart would bleed.

We contain all of her memories,
those both joyous and filled with treachery.

Her capricious handwriting reflects her emotions,
devoted to writing about all her life's commotions.

In our pages, we have secrets --
a decade long archive of personal leaflets.

We are filled to the brim with paper ephemera,
from tickets to wrappers and even a smudge of mascara --
most of which now seems like it's from a different era.

And she's told us stories that no one else knows,
to this day, we're very proud of the way she grows.

She's been through a lot,
but so have we,
surviving moving and fires and anything that can be.

So please don't open us up for all the world to see.
She's not quite ready to spill the tea.

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