Mire.

The Song of the Drunkard

It was not in me. It moved in and out.
When I dared to stop it, the wine won out.
(What it was, I no longer remember.)
The wine then offered this and offered that, 
till I became dependent upon him,
I, fool!


Now I am part of his game, as he throws me
around in utter contempt, and surely he will
lose me this day to that scavenger: death.
When death wins me, soiled card that I am,
he will use me only to scratch his sordid scabs
and toss me away into the mire.


                              - Rainer Maria Rilke

A Figure Walks

Schiele study.

Nude Before a Mirror.

Odd.

Wednesday morning.

Before Too Long