Back to the sweat-filled confines of the YMCA; steams enshrouds the air and that brownish rust glossing the metal lockers distracts enough from the air-drying revitalization of a miniscule sauna, a vague reminder of an era not too long ago.

Schubert, be flat. When you were my age, you were about to die soon. But Pergolesi had already been dead for three years.

Mallarmé says “I am alone, while all these men around me live in the idolatry of a mirror reflecting in its depths serene.” That probably sounded gayer in French.

Facing the night.