In a drawing room in which no one can draw black liquid rises to the brink of the fine bone china a silent accompaniment to your trembling hands tinkling saucer against cup thin lips strain but cannot drink your rage splutters flecks of phlegm “Drawing, sir, drawing is honour” an uncontrolled wave surges “Drawing, sir, drawing is honesty!” dark spillings stain your shirt the limit of reason unleashed “I, sir, I would not slaughter horses or slay concubines.” words falter thought phrases disintegrate “Line no violence knows colour Romanticism’s screech bounds drama let go line, sir, line.” rage and shame taint your skin the room shrinks eyes narrow to the spectacle nobody sees history’s recording angel slam the door