The Garden by Erza Pound

                        --Samain

Like a skein of loose silk blown against a wall

She walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens,

And she is dying piece-meal

            Of a sort of emotional anæmia.

And round about there is a rabble

Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor.

They shall inherit the earth.

In her is the end of breeding.

Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.

She would like some one to speak to her,

And is almost afraid that I

            Will commit that indiscretion.

about that picture down there...

 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Synesthesia#Prevalence_and_genetic_basis

Actually enjoyed working on my poetry project tonight. I feel better now that I've started it .

I wish I could stay inside my room for a few days, maybe a week, and read. Just read. Yeah, I'd eat, go to the bathroom, but mostly I'd just lose myself in books. While I was looking for poems I would read the ones around the poem I had decided to use, then maybe turn the page and read those ones too. Needless to say, It took me significantly longer than it needed to. But it was good. I don't mind getting lost.