tired.

my eyes see but my mind halts.
my body moves but my heart waits.
my head spins but my soul lingers.



An experienced eye is never mistaken. It can at once decipher in those set or dejected faces, in those eyes, dull and hollow or still shining with the last sparks of struggle, in those deep and numerous wrinkles, in that slow or dislocated gait, the innumerable stories of love deceived, of devotion unrecognized, of effort unrecompensed, of hunger and cold silently endured.
(WIDOWS, Paris Spleen, Charles Baudelaire)