This life is a hospital where each patient is possessed by the desire to change his bed. - Charles Baudelaire

One night, the soul of wine was singing in the flask:
"O man, dear disinherited! to you I sing
This song full of light and of brotherhood
From my prison of glass with its scarlet wax seals."

Above my cradle loomed the bookcase where/ Latin ashes and the dust of Greece/ mingled with novels, history, and verse/ in one dark Babel. I was folio-high/ when I first heard the voices.

Perhaps it would be sweet to be, in turn, both victim and executioner.