thinking is the new black

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

A break in the google/whitebread debate to tell you the heart breaking news that my iPod has tragically passed away this morning. We have been together since 2003 and have had over 4 happy years together. I am not sure what this means for the thesis since I find it almost impossible to write without music. Equally the bose sound dock has gone into herself and refuses to speak with anyone. This is a sad day. A nation mourns.