Last night I dreamt that Walt Whitman, Henry David Thoreau, and Ralph Waldo Emerson were getting frustrated with me because I couldn’t keep them straight and kept calling them by the wrong names.
I keep laughing and laughing and laughing when I picture this; of three old men with weirdly-groomed beards standing in front of you, offended and with their arms crossed, as you keep saying, “Now, Walt…I mean, Henry…crap, Ralph! I mean Ralph!”
I keep laughing and laughing and laughing when I picture this; of three old men with weirdly-groomed beards standing in front of you, offended and with their arms crossed, as you keep saying, “Now, Walt…I mean, Henry…crap, Ralph! I mean Ralph!”
That’s what it was like, except Walt Whitman had a straw hat of some sort.