So I look yearningly at the soft stars, but they will do me no good.
When you awaken in the mornings hush, I am the swift uplifting rush, of quiet birds in circled flight, I am the soft stars that shine at night.
The shape was long and lean, though slightly loose, and there was a fuzzy, retro quality to the mostly black-and-white prints: soft stars, confetti, squiggles and abstract as well as Marimekko-style flowers.
"You are the quiet bird in circled flight, the soft star that shines at night," it says.
While strolling recently in Central Park, I noticed a small plaque on a bench near the Great Lawn with the following inscription: In loving memory of our dear Peter R. Kellerman WTC -- 9/11/01 You are the quiet bird in circled flight; The soft star that shines at night.
After a while, the bushes thinned out and I could see the soft star-lit glimmer of Lake Malawi spread before us like a wide swath of grey silk, so still you'd never have guessed it was water, apart from a faint ripple that wrinkled its surface when the breeze stirred.
Even though this New Yorker will get used to the sight of those harried and hurried walkers warding off one of nature's most precious gifts, he will still carry with him the feeling that blocking out snow's charms borders on the insane, that a determined effort to not get touched by those wonderfully soft star-shaped flakes is patently absurd and always will be.
That came in 2005, when Los Angeles writer and director JD Ryznar's spoof online video series on the imagined lives of 1970s soft rock stars, including Michael McDonald of the Doobie Brothers and Kenny Loggins, coined the term.
"The air was soft, the stars so fine, the promise of every cobbled alley so great, that I thought I was in a dream," wrote Jack Kerouac, famously, in On the Road.
The star is porn Privacy issues raised by Tim Fountain's Gaydar show pop up again in Dirty Fan Male at the Gilded Balloon, where the sad letters written by male clients to soft porn stars are performed brilliantly in a range of styles (Noel Coward to Michael Caine) by Duncan Wisbey.
The night was soft; the stars and the moon were bright; the grass in the bowl was impossibly green, as if it were growing out of something far richer than dirt; the stadium lights did not destroy the colors and shadows of evening yet illuminated the turf so well that individual blades of grass could be seen.
