Listening out for the Song of Cathay

Because of the prevailing conditions, I can hear but not see the planes soaring above the distant hills, a sight that, on clear days, serves as a constant and oddly comforting reminder of the world of travel that I have inhabited for the past 37 years.

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Flying High, Flying Free, Martin Moodie can’t you see…

I shall not pain readers with the end result, except to say that Bob Dylan’s songwriting legacy is probably safe for now from any AI assault (Truffles my cat wagging her tail/Gonna pick him up can’t ever fail/Get her from the vet she’s ready to roll/Truffles my friend let’s rock and stroll) is not yet the stuff of the Nobel Prize in Literature.

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