Soon we shall plunge into the cold darkness;
Farewell, vivid brightness of our short-lived summers!
― Charles Baudelaire, “Autumn Song”
Baudelaire.
It is 1859. Where has his strength gone? His arms are like brooms held at arms’ length to disturb a hornets’ nest, only his are joined at his shoulders. Numb, barely under his control. It is l’automne now, the time of dying, when the hornets die off or disappear to hide with their Queen. Baudelaire’s deadened broomstick arms serve no purpose now except to take the louched glass of absinthe once the sugar lump has been dissolved by dripping ice water.
