#stopalltheclocks

[catsmiaow-blog1]

Stop All the Clocks - 4

"Do you have him?  The man who shot Lestrade?"

While Sherlock had seen his bank of monitors watching the hospital, he hadn't the ones watching Mycroft's guest.  But he knew.  Mycroft didn't doubt that at all.  He also didn't doubt that his brother would have understood completely.  Likewise, he knew Sherlock didn't care on moral or ethical grounds.  He simply wanted to know, especially if others didn't.  Mycroft said nothing.  He only stared at the screens showing silent nurses moving about the two sleeping men.

"I know that he escaped somehow, impossibly.  Lestrade's people are still looking for him.  You really should bring Sally Donovan back.  She's one of the few useful ones."

Mycroft said nothing still, only watched with all the expression of a stone idol.

"Lestrade always thought so.  She helped him a good deal when he returned.  He'll need her again when he comes back."

As much as he loathed it, Mycroft had to admit that Sherlock had a point.  The familiar was better than the strange, and he needed people that would insulate Lestrade instead of hope for a downfall like some in the Met did.  "She will be back tomorrow."

[catsmiaow-blog1]

Midnight Rewrites

I hate it when I read something I had written out and hate how it flows now.  I thought I would have the next chapter of ‘Stop the Clocks’ and ‘Restless Dreams’ to go out, but I don’t like the flow of one and don’t want to work on the other until the first is settled.

So here I am with ‘GoodFellas’ playing in the background as I redo this chapter of Clocks.

[honeyandstarships-blog]

Funeral Blues - W.H. Auden

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 forever: 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.

[projectaapparel-blog]

Check out our interview with #dublinbornandbred #stopalltheclocks www.projectaapparel.com/blog

[jasonmanoharan-blog]

"Stop All The Clocks" by W. H. Auden 

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.

Brilliant, emotional poem that I only heard two weeks ago and it really stuck with me because of the brilliant metaphors and this clip. It is a reading by John Hannah in "Four Weddings and a Funeral". The poem is also commonly known as "Funeral Blues"

[reebeck]

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.

W.H. Auden