The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ. Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit. Shall lure it back to cancal half a line, Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
I had a king in a tenement castle, lately he's taken to painting the pastel walls brown. He's taken the curtains down. He's swept with the broom of contempt, and the rooms have an empty ring. He's cleaned with the tears of an actor who fears for the laughter's sting...