no contact possible to flesh allayed the fever of the bone

I am currently drinking some absinthe. It's for research. Really. Not that I don't like drinking absinthe anyhow.

The cherry trees nearby have gone from bud to flower. I would enjoy the state of flower more if I didn't know that soon they will be in a state of overblown flower, and the petals will turn brown, and fall, and be miserable.

Diablo III is out in less than a fortnight. Something very definite to look forward to. If not quite as elegant as absinthe or cherry blossoms.

---

Whispers of Immortality

Webster was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.

Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.

Donne, I suppose, was such another
Who found no substitute for sense,
To seize and clutch and penetrate;
Expert beyond experience,

He knew the anguish of the marrow
The ague of the skeleton;
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.
. . . . .
Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye
Is underlined for emphasis;
Uncorseted, her friendly bust
Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.

The couched Brazilian jaguar
Compels the scampering marmoset
With subtle effluence of cat;
Grishkin has a maisonette;

The sleek Brazilian jaguar
Does not in its arboreal gloom
Distil so rank a feline smell
As Grishkin in a drawing-room.

And even the Abstract Entities
Circumambulate her charm;
But our lot crawls between dry ribs
To keep our metaphysics warm.

-- TS Eliot