I don't know

But if he stood and watched the frigid wind
Tousling the clouds, lay on the fusty bed
Telling himself that this was home, and grinned,
And shivered, without shaking off the dread

 That how we live measures our own nature,
And at his age having no more to show
Than one hired box should make him pretty sure
He warranted no better, I don't know.


these last two stanzas of Mr B come to me sometimes and bring with them an image that is both calming and unsettling somehow. I say it to myself quietly (more or less depending on where I am usually happens in parks) a few times and forget about it till the next time. shit is beautiful