Horace (starting a poem): The beginning warmth of spring, so lovely, earth released at last from winter’s white hoarfrost, the breezes so pleasant and the young goats playing in the grass…
Horace (ending a poem): you’re gonna die really fucking soon you know that? any day now. in the grand scheme of things. so drink up that wine while you can bc when you’re in HELL you won’t BE ABLE TO.















