(no subject)

[bzarcher]

Now is the Winter of our discontent, made glorious Summer by this...son of York.
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our House in the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our sterm aularums turned to merry meetings; Our dreadful marches to delightful measures...
But I, that am not shap'd for sportive tricks, nor made to court an amorous looking-glass...
Why, I, in this weak-piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time...
Richard III, act I, sc. I

I feel...unfulfilled.
I feel bored.
I feel...alone.

I miss her, and things seem...empty. Like nothing quite satisfies tonight. Not even the Bard gives solace.
I keep returning to poor Richard...maimed and bitter bastard.