Charles Baudelare, a writer of the 1800's was a Symbolist. This shines though in this poem, speaking of “brilliant sunshine”, “tenebrous storms” and “the autumn of the mind”. This poem I believe is about Baudelare experiencing a mid-life crisis of sorts, as the poem starts by speaking of his youth in the past tense, then “the autumn of the mind” in present and then about how all of his effort to change his life will fail.
One way of looking at this poem is that Baudelare is woeful about how his youth has left him. The line ”My youth has been nothing but a tenebrous storm,” on the first read sounds remorseful, but could have a second meaning of the turbulence of his youth, the wild times. It sounds remorseful that the flexibility is gone. Maybe
[Entire text of my diplomatic email to my boss, the office manager, and the CEO of the company, inquiring about the continuation of my employment, my paycheck, and such things.]
The sounds of the air conditioner working hard made the undertone to Scott and Rym’s talking about the pokemons again. They finished up the podcast, and hit the stop button. A few more clicks with the mouse, and it was uploading to the internets. Scott let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s so hot… I hate summer…” ”We all do,” answered Rym, pulling off his shirt and getting up, heading to the kitchen to grab some water and ice. Scott followed suit, smirking a bit. The long-haired man grabbed a glass, and waited for the water to cool off a bit. Once cool enough for his tastes, he put it under the tap. Letting himself daze off a bit, he nearly dropped it as two arms wrapped around his waist. “Scott!” he yelped. “What did I tell you about doing that?” The glasses poked a bit into Rym’s cheek as he spoke. “That’s not fair… You took off your shirt…” Pouting lips planted a small kiss on the cheek next to them. Turning off the tap and setting the almost too-full glass to the side, he turned around and gave him a hug back. “It’s too hot for physical contact…” Scott huffed a bit, then pulled back to grin at him. “Pussy… Fine, then what about a game of Mario before bed?” ”Only if I get to play as Peach.” ”Fine.”
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In much the same way I don't like Mtn. Dew. (Not worth the effort to
Huh. A bit anticlimatic.
One way of looking at this poem is that Baudelare is woeful about how his youth has left him. The line ”My youth has been nothing but a tenebrous storm,” on the first read sounds remorseful, but could have a second meaning of the turbulence of his youth, the wild times. It sounds remorseful that the flexibility is gone. Maybe
EDIT: Woops. You guys don't need to see that.
Scott let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s so hot… I hate summer…”
”We all do,” answered Rym, pulling off his shirt and getting up, heading to the kitchen to grab some water and ice. Scott followed suit, smirking a bit. The long-haired man grabbed a glass, and waited for the water to cool off a bit. Once cool enough for his tastes, he put it under the tap. Letting himself daze off a bit, he nearly dropped it as two arms wrapped around his waist. “Scott!” he yelped. “What did I tell you about doing that?”
The glasses poked a bit into Rym’s cheek as he spoke. “That’s not fair… You took off your shirt…” Pouting lips planted a small kiss on the cheek next to them.
Turning off the tap and setting the almost too-full glass to the side, he turned around and gave him a hug back. “It’s too hot for physical contact…”
Scott huffed a bit, then pulled back to grin at him. “Pussy… Fine, then what about a game of Mario before bed?”
”Only if I get to play as Peach.”
”Fine.”