Not only do I not know what&#39;s going on, I wouldn&#39;t know what to do about it if I did.

The dews that wet the tender grass, At the sun’s birth, too quickly pass, Nor e’er can hope to see it rise In full perfection to the skies.” Shiônagon, who now joined them, and heard the above distich, consoled the nun with the following:— “The dews will not so quickly pass, Nor shall depart before they see The full perfection of the grass, They loved so well in infancy.

Part of me longs to do a job where there&#39;s not a gray area.

en muchos sentidos el mar es, al fin y al cabo, solo una forma más mojada de aire.

Written By Terry Pratchett

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