Many Humble Apologies

First off, let me just extend my heartfelt apologies to the entire blogging community. This must be one of the least updated blogs of all time. But I have been SO busy with other writing duties that simply must take precedence. What can I say? I've only got SIX chapters to go on my new book with twenty in the can, and there's no backing down now.

Second off, major sorrows go to the friends and family of Andy Hallet, who played the lovable green nightclub owner on "Angel." Sure, he was a demon, but he wasn't such a bad guy. I met Andy a couple of times at Dragoncon, and he was a nice, funny, thoughtful fellow. He just passed away at the tender age of thirty-three due to heart disease. He will be missed, and suddenly my heart arrhythmia problems of a year or so ago don't seem so bad.

Third off, no, I'm not actually going to provide you with any original content now. My muses carried me through half a chapter today, and they've decided to go bowling or some such this evening. They deserve the night off. Not that it really matters, cuz who reads this thing anymore, anyhow? However, I do want to fire off a poem deep into cyberspace, just because I can. I've always loved it, and its time to serve it up on a silver platter, Dedalus Enterprises-style.

Strangely enough, it ties in to my new YA series as well.

So without further ado, I offer the floor to the inestimable Arthur O'Shaughnessy -

We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams.
World-losers and world-forsakers,
Upon whom the pale moon gleams;
Yet we are the movers and shakers,
Of the world forever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world's great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire's glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song's measure
Can trample an empire down.

We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o'erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world's worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.