The people, the people. The people talk of themselves. The arm-band politicos lie puking in the gutter, gagging inadequacy. Baudelaire wouldn't give an empty purse for them. I know that now.
Revolutions come and go.
All manner of change turns its circle. All manner of style wheels its fortune. I am quite detached. Order and expressions of order rush by. They are subject to fasgion, the matter of fancy.