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Let them have it; it's theirs

 Beauty goes out of the world and it's only the beating of flesh that fills the air. It's only the moaning of some whore made good by the bank balance of a richer man. Let them bang on at it. Let the flesh smells rot the air. As for this withering part of the tree, As for me:  I will enjoy the last rays of the sun.  People are such a disappointment.
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Morning after

 The morning of the regrets or the morning after as it was called by some historians at the time, was a day of reckoning as it were, before the actual day of reckoning. 

This was a day when nothing seemed it could go right. Even the view out onto the lake seemed to throw back negative memories and indications of doubt and luckless evenings when joy seemed to slip out of the bag and get replaced by a sledgehammer in the back. 


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