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A little game of "who posted this"....

 

 

If I may go back to yesterday's dinner. I was in NYC for the weekend to see a broadway play (moving out). My friend and I went to an Italian restaurant called Mangia Bevi. He had spaghetti bolognese. I had boneless chicken with mushrooms and slices of sausage. Plus for the appetizer Bruschetti.

Cant forget the caraf of wine I drank all by myself

 

and later in the thread

 

Nah, I was hanging out with Tbone. My dinner was not greasy just healthy.

 

 

Who's hanging out in NYC with the T-Bone? Enquiring minds want to know? :blink::blink:

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A little game of "who posted this"....

and later in the thread

Who's hanging out in NYC with the T-Bone?  Enquiring minds want to know? :blink:  :blink:

286498[/snapback]

I would have to guess this is from AIO, but just a guess.

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Horrifying, isn't it? Like something out of an HP Lovecraft novel.

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I was thinking 'The Second Coming' by Yeats, but Lovecraft works too...

 

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out

When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi

Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it

Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again; but now I know

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

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I was thinking 'The Second Coming' by Yeats, but Lovecraft works too...

 

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out

When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi

Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it

Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again; but now I know

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

286858[/snapback]

 

And now for Lovecraft:

 

"Examined at headquarters after a trip of intense strain and weariness, the prisoners all proved to be men of a very low, mixed-blooded, and mentally aberrant type"

 

:doh:

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