Jozef Imrich, name worthy of Kafka, has his finger on the pulse of any irony of interest and shares his findings to keep you in-the-know with the savviest trend setters and infomaniacs.
''I want to stay as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can't see from the center.''
There’s nothing like the sun as the year dies, Kind as it can be, this world being made so, The stones and men and beasts and birds and flies, To all things that it touches except snow, Whether on mountain side or street of town. The south wall warms me: November has begun, Yet never shone the sun as fair as now While the sweet last-left damsons from the bough With spangles of the morning’s storm drop down Because the starling shakes it, whistling what Once swallows sang. But I have not forgot That there is nothing, too, like March’s sun, Like April’s, or July’s, or June’s, or May’s, Or January’s, or February’s, great days: And August, September, October, and December Have equal days, all different from November. No day of any month but I have said – Or, if I could live long enough, should say – ‘There’s nothing like the sun that shines today.’ There’s nothing like the sun till we are dead.