"You're attracted to me because I'm an artist. Unlike these bitches around here, you know I'll bring beauty and color into your life."

Woman, half the people I know are artists, the other half are lawyers, the last half are in the medical industry. What I fucking need is a mathematician. 

My crazy won't shut up.

W. H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. 

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. 

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

I replaced the word "marmaduke" with "mamluke"... pretty sure that's more accurate than the version I found>

The sons of the Prophet were hardy and bold
And quite unaccustom'd to fear.
But the bravest of all, at least so I am told—
Was Abdullah Bul Bul Ameer.

If you wanted a man to encourage the van
Or to harass the foe from the rear
Or to storm a redoubt, you had but to shout
For Abdullah Bul Bul Ameer

There were heroes in plenty, good men known to fame
In the army then led by the Czar.
But none of more fame than a man by the name
Of Ivan Petrovski Skivar.

He could imitate Irving, tell fortunes with cards
He could play on the Spanish guitar
In fact quite the cream of the Muscovite team
Was Ivan Petrovski Skivar.

One day this bold Russian had shouldered his gun,
And with his most cynical sneer,
Was looking for fun when he happened to run
Upon Abdullah Bul Bul Ameer.

"Young man," said Bul Bul,"is existence so dull
That you're anxious to end your career?
For, infidel, know you have trod on the toe
Of Abdullah Bul Bul Ameer.

"So take your last look upon sunshine and brook.
Send your regrets to the Czar.
By which I imply you are going to die
Mr. Ivan Petrovski Skivar."

Then the brave mamluke drew his trusty skilbouk.
Crying, "Allah, il Allah! Allah!"
And on slaughter intent, he ferociously went
For Ivan Petrovski Skivar.

On a stone by the banks where the Danube doth roll,
Inscribed in characters clear,
Is "Stranger, remember to pray for the soul
Of Abdullah Bul Bul Ameer."

A Muscovite maiden her sad vigil keeps
In her home by the cold Northern Star
And the name that she murmurs in vain as she weeps,
Is Ivan Petrovski Skivar.

My car rattled as it broke through lush grass of the twisting valley, the evening sun shined off the broken stems left in my wake. I didn’t know where I was, but I knew I was close to my destination and as if summoned a weathered shanty crested close to the horizon.

I floated abreast of the building and walked in without knocking.

The small space was crowded with the greasy fumes of an oil lamp, and the shadows grew tall and withered by the whims of the flame. The old man I sought huddled in a corner, blanketed in shadow, never touched by the cycling tides of light.

“I can’t help you son,” croaked a voice marred with neglect.

But you’re the only one who’s been where I’m going. Not my words, not my voice, maybe barked by a dispassionate stage hand huddling behind the fourth wall.

“And I never will again,” his words rolled out abject and tired, “These timbers that were my freedom are now my cage. When these waters dried up and left us here, left our dreams to rot too.”

The man leaned forward to meet the waxing flicker of light, his milky white irises flashed like the eye shines of a varment. “There’s nothing left for us to see anymore. All I wish for now is God’s judgment to come and wash us away."

I stood there, my gaze following the ebb and flow of the light on the ground. I was disappointed in his words and denied their meaning. A conflict swelled within me that desired to be poured out in violence. My shoulders tightened. My thighs tensed. My fingers curled into my palms to make clubs of meat and bone.

Then reality blossomed around me. I lay there in the darkness I knew, my throat dry, my lips tasting of salt. There was meaning to be found, but certainly lost.

Was I the defeated old man?

The dead ship Freedom?

The waters that abandoned them?

Or is this message not for the dreamer, but for him to deliver, like a letter thrown out to sea?