What can I say that I haven't said before? Othello's occupation's gone.
My eyes are outlined with a tint of rawness; my monstrous heart wallows slowly in its breast. Its outriding thoughts skitter slyly in the margins.
"I am old, I am old," mutters Falstaff.
Love, I suppose, after my fashion.
The light comes earlier now. I ride the bus down to the Foundation, which is on the same block as, but on the corner diagonally opposite to, the great purple octopus that adorns the facade of the Greek restaurant.
I walk in the open air of the city.
Raise my head and look at the moon, as the Chinese poet said. Lower my head and think of home.