A confused stile, and a disturbed method, is fittest to discourse of our miserie.
Chromodoris magnifica are blestDo eastern stars slope never west,Nor pallid ashes follow fire:If hours be years the twain are blest,For now they solace swift desire. (Photo by Edouard Potjes.)
Those look like a strange desert. Amazing the varieties of teh little buggers.
Both the photograph and words are beautiful.
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