Baudelaire put a pistol to his evaporated brain "Here, in the nowhere that is my everywhere, nadir, I take aim at the gods who love and oppress me." Turquoise swans on his cufflinks glitter; who knew that the internal exile of "not belonging" could be so bitter? Stale coffee gives his face its pained look of being stricken, of being struck dumb from the inside where the words had come ably bubbling as a spring of blood. "My hand was a steel spring and the meter ticked like rivets going in to the side of a ship; faultless preparations for a voyage left unmade. Now sloppy in my silk slippers, I putter in the parlor thinking through the reams of old talk (Nerval's neuralgic nose, Huysman's figure thin as in a wishing glass) old talk that had ascended to the chandelier's burning bough and disappeared...."