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O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

Saturday, July 18, 2009

Almost Sunday

Chapter sixteen is in the bag. It came in at 1385 words. There was plenty of time staring at the screen forcing the words out.

It's not good. I should probably run through it again before moving on, but I don't know if that will happen.

And right now, as you can tell, I'm drained of words. It's time for bed. Tomorrow is lunch with the niece who graduated HS this year. She's going to college way far away, so we won't see her too often after that.

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