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Today's Stichomancy for Woody Allen

The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The Circular Staircase by Mary Roberts Rinehart:

examine what lay beyond. The result was nil. The trunk-room, although heated by steam heat, like the rest of the house, boasted of a fireplace and mantel as well. The opening had been made between the flue and the outer wall of the house. There was revealed, however, on inspection, only the brick of the chimney on one side and the outer wall of the house on the other; in depth the space extended only to the flooring. The breach had been made about four feet from the floor, and inside were all the missing bits of plaster. It had been a methodical ghost.

It was very much of a disappointment. I had expected a secret room, at the very least, and I think even Mr. Jamieson had


The Circular Staircase
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Georgics by Virgil:

And fattening food derives, or that the fire Bakes every blemish out, and sweats away Each useless humour, or that the heat unlocks New passages and secret pores, whereby Their life-juice to the tender blades may win; Or that it hardens more and helps to bind The gaping veins, lest penetrating showers, Or fierce sun's ravening might, or searching blast Of the keen north should sear them. Well, I wot, He serves the fields who with his harrow breaks The sluggish clods, and hurdles osier-twined


Georgics
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Poems of William Blake by William Blake:

Ah weep not little voice, thou can'st not speak, but thou can'st weep: Is this a Worm? I see they lay helpless & naked: weeping And none to answer, none to cherish thee with mothers smiles.

The Clod of Clay heard the Worms voice & rais'd her pitying head: She bowd over the weeping infant, and her life exhald In milky fondness, then on Thel she fix'd her humble eyes

O beauty of the vales of Har, we live not for ourselves, Thou seest me the meanest thing, and so I am indeed: My bosom of itself is cold, and of itself is dark,

But he that loves the lowly, pours his oil upon my head And kisses me, and binds his nuptial bands around my breast.


Poems of William Blake