and over your unconsecrated head you'll hear the howling wolves lament their fate and yours the livelong year; - Charles Baudelaire

He sadly resumes his path toward a desert that he knows is similar to the one he just crossed, escorted by the pale phantom they call Reason, who lights up the aridity of his path with a weak lantern, and who, when the thirst of passion comes back from time to time, quenches it with the poison of ennui.

Her voice makes perfume when she speaks,
Her breath is music faint and low.

A multitude of small delights constitute happiness