one of the great stanzas in poetry (trns from the French):
...No chest of drawers crammed with documents, love-letters, wedding-invitations, wills, a lock of someone's hair rolled up in a deed, hides so many secrets as my brain. This branching catacombs, this pyramid contains more corpses than the potter's field: I am a graveyard that the moon abhors, where long worms like regrets come out to feed most ravenously on my dearest dead. I am an old boudoir where a rack of gowns, perfumed by withered roses, rots to dust; where only faint pastels and pale Bouchers inhale the scent of long-unstoppered flasks.