When you are old and grey and full of sleep,And nodding by the fire, take down this book,And slowly read, and dream of the soft lookYour eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;How many loved your moments of glad grace,And loved your beauty with love false or true,But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,And loved the sorrows of your changing face;And bending down beside the glowing bars,Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fledAnd paced upon the mountains overheadAnd hid his face amid a crowd of stars.W. B. YEATSAnd before you ask, no, I'm not "that" guy, neither the other, we never meet each other.I've just passsed through your last four years, in this place. It's been a peculiar ride. There's something in the way you write, and draw, that make me feel like an ancient wisdom, and a sweet sadness, are still here, quiet, waiting to awake again. I live in your hometown, I see every day thing that I suppose you've seen too for many years, this feeling of connection and distance casts me in a strange sort of nostalgia for the future.I love the things you do. I love the thoughts you write. And I love your pilgrim soul.
grazie di queste parole che non possono altro che toccarmi nonostante questo schermo piatto I´m really proud to know that what I do and think could generate a sort of feeling of love and empaty in someone wich I dont knowand about my pilgrim soul, it gaves me meterial to think about
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