i live in the house
one that died a bit over hundred years ago
and a bit before that
he wrote a poem
that many consider the best love poem ever written in our language
..
he wrote the famous poem
in this very house
i love to believe he wrote it in this room i call my own these days
..
it feels strange to live in his house
(ok, his wife's house, but it still feels strange)
this place should be a museum of some sort
not a temporary home of one rather strange group
of archaeologists and heavy drinkers
..
now, the house has nothing of the looks it once had
furniture is i believe from the 50's and 60's
almost nothing is authentic
but it still is fabulous
and light years away from the houses we usually stay in
while on excavations
..
sorry for the lack of posts
i'm too tired and feeling slightly blue lately
(being almost 5 months away from my other self)
not in the mood to take pictures
not in the mood to do much at all
..
luckily, there is gin tonic in my near future
..
mokosha
