Het is weekend. Het gaat weer.
I bring an unaccustomed wine
To lips long parching
Next to mine,
And summon them to drink;
Crackling with fever, they Essay,
I turn my brimming eyes away,
And come next hour to look.
The hands still hug the tardy glass—
The lips I would have cooled, alas—
Are so superfluous Cold—
I would as soon attempt to warm
The bosoms where the frost has lain
Ages beneath the mould—
Some other thirsty there may be
To whom this would have pointed me
Had it remained to speak—
And so I always bear the cup
If, haply, mine may be the drop
Some pilgrim thirst to slake—
If, haply, any say to me
"Unto the little, unto me,"
When I at last awake.
Prettig weekend. En be nice.
Beaujolais nouveau.— Dinelecoeur 🇪🇺💉 (@dinelecoeur) November 15, 2018
Meestal niet te zuipen.
Ik sla het over
Zojuist geopend. De schilderijententoonstelling van Yvonne Nagel Aan De Kade aan de Handelskade 2 in ‘s-Hertogenbosch. pic.twitter.com/jk0KS89zAE— Henk Krol (@HenkKrol) November 16, 2018
Holy shit. This commercial. pic.twitter.com/aXewAG5C3i— James Corden (@JKCorden) November 15, 2018