I wish to drill open my chest,
And rip my heart out,
To peel of the worldly veneer of it,
To trim out the philistine fat around it,
To stop the blood,
Mother of the spring of misery,
Flowing from it,
And present it to you,
For I am in destitute,
And have nothing else to offer.
The poet of Rome is in the wrong,
The verse ought to be:
"Dolce et decorum est pro tibi mori"
Finished "A Short History of Byzantium" on Monday, up to page 153 with "Mayakovsky, A Biography".