May I introduce you to ...

Friday is Skyday

Panta rhei

Time flies. So many news. And so many (more) thoughts.

So good, most of them remain where they are, hm?
Therefore, a(ny) blogger's hiatus can save the world from stupid thoughts, hm?


Ah, good to see you nodding.
[For Arabian readers: Good to see you shaking your head]

And now - with thanks to the Monty Pythons - for something completely different.

While my dearest friend Tetrapilotomos is still being busy with proof-reading his 1669 pages long opus Pre-Assyrian Philately in a Nutshell,  I am not in search of lost time, but in search of lost humour.

Not surprised I'd be, were this due to the rumour according to which all men are (behaving like) wimps as soon as they do have a minor ailment.

To cut a story short that easily could become as long as the story about the seal:

Not writing, not answering (all) comments, not visiting, not leaving comments these days has (had) reasons.

As always :) : I shall try to improve.

The peace of the night. 

Friday is Skyday

Two days, one difference

November 1st

November 3rd

November 1st

November 3rd

Whodunnit?

And who did it not?

Not newsworthy

Blimey! What a story, though ...

would I happen to be the Duchess of Cornwall.

... rolling down

Light upon the shed's roof

Friday is Skyday

57

Means:

- the Rubicon has been passed.

More precisely:

-  more than half of my life ...

that is if I do reach my aim - 113 years.

Therefore:

From now on - for the coming 56 years - I shall not make (m)any compromises, anymore.

It's time:

56 years - minus or plus x - to speak out.

Not necessarily in English.

And please: No funeral eulogies before October 14, 2066.

Thank you.

Well, not best but very much

Of all the works of man I like best
Those which have been used.
The copper pots with their dents and flattened edges
The knives and forks whose wooden handles
Have been worn away by many hands: such forms
Seemed to me the noblest. So too the flagstones round old houses
Trodden by many feet, ground down
And with tufts of grass growing between them: these
Are happy works.

Von allen Werken, die liebsten
Sind mir die gebrauchten.
Die Kupfergefäße mit den Beulen und den abgeplatteten Rändern
Die Messer und Gabeln, deren Holzgriffe
Abgegriffen sind von vielen Händen: solche Formen
Schienen mir die edelsten. So auch die Steinfliesen um alte Häuser
Welche niedergetreten sind von vielen Füßen, abgeschliffen
Und zwischen denen Grasbüschel wachsen, das
Sind glückliche Werke.
Bertolt Brecht

Noble decision

Peace Nobel Prize to

Liu Xiabo