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Sick of those who come with words, words but no language,
I make my way to the snow-covered island.Wilderness has no words. The unwritten pages
Stretch out in all directions.I come across this line of deer-slots in the snow: a language,
Language without words.Tomas Transtromer - From March 1979
Jess. 22. Animal Scientist/aspiring conservationist. And a whole lot more besides.
"Come sit at the table under October's able skies."
We'll drink tea, or a cocktail if you fancy, and philosophise about growing up, leaving home and trying to make sense of the world. All to the never ending soundtrack of our beloved musical obessions.
(Lyric from the wonderful Beirut - Un Dernier Verre (pour la route).
