(Engraving by Giacomelli in 'The Insect' by Jules Michelet)
What could be more poignant than a dead butterfly? A broken butterfly, perhaps. Sob.
I am having a good old mope tonight. Not about Love. Nor Death. Everything is fine in those departments. Besides, I have, after all, always preferred the Woody Allen version. No, I am just moping about the fact that the weekend is over and I have to return to work tomorrow.
Speaking of the Woody Allen version, as much as I would like to describe myself as one of the most june people in all of the Russias, I am, I fear, incredibly jejune. Time to toughen up.