Gas station bathroom graffiti - Imgur
Of course it had to happen, it really had to happen, it was the natural end to Beethoven’s Ninth. Everyone was getting sicker and looking like a wolverine while the people pushed colleges. Dirty buildings with lawns for people to lie on blankets. Well-groomed wasps or purposefully disheveled sensitives reading Spengler. But meanwhile everything was dead. Writing was dead, movies were dead. Everybody sat like an unpeeled orange. But the music was so beautiful.
- Lou Reed, The View from the Bandstand
Aspen #3, item #3
Joyless month of January, when indifferent midday
sets up its lessons in the sky, in hard-hearted gold.
Like the wine in a glass filled up to the brim,
it fills the earth to its blue limits.
The misfortunes of these times seem like little
grapes that gather their green bitterness —
the confused, hidden tears of each day —
until bad weather brings them out in bunches.
Yes, the fresh shoots and the pain, all that quivers,
terrified in the crackling of the January light,
will come to fruit, will burn as the fruit burns.
And our sorrows will be torn apart. The soul
will give off a gale, and our home
will be left clean, with fresh bread on the table.