PARIS IS BURNING

She dwells with Beauty -- Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips;
Ay, in the very temple of delight
Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous
tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

//John Keats

I've actually spent the entire of the day trying to create a post but seem to have struck the old creative block. Nasty bugger but alas something caught my attention and was instantly sidetracked from my original idea and thus post of inspiration came into fruition.

xoxo