angst
oh, Bill. honestly.

LXVI

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And guilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly doctor-like controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

-- WS

So maybe I'm tired and piled piecemeal in boxes and under bags trapped but the hills past the exit to Tanglewood have me, they have me and oh in October I will be lost. found again in grey November to be sure, cold and claustrophobic... feels like both in this damp green August.