Accursed be thee, yon white nose hair! Ne'er seen a strand in color so long and fair. A wretched pale spire of thy damned kin, Thou hast grown too far o'er mine own chin, To belie the youthful mirth of thy wearer's face, Flaunting thy thread-like wisp in mock disgrace. Bereft of merit and void of charm art thou, A ghastly figure now waves unfurled upon my prow. Thy wind-blown sprawls o'erreach thy nostril's tomb, Clutching like a phantom from thy cavernous womb. O! w hat vile purpose dost thy girded ivory will intend? What quarry seek’st thou, that heaven dare not send? Would'st thou not resign to dress in shadow? Prithee, diminish thyself in my beard's dark meadow. Shroud thy weedy form in concealment's strength, Spare my neighbor's glance thy twisted, gnarled length. Do not tempt to steal a ...
SERIES OF SHOTS: A spry, middle-aged man wakes up before sunrise. Reaching over to the bedside table, he puts on his glasses. He springs from bed, and begins a series of robust stretches and lunges in his clean bedroom—which, though small, is well-kept, affording him plenty of space for his lunging exercises. He sways and bends from the hips. Rotating his pelvis. He arches his back, far backward—then forward—like an exaggerated dance, though with no set beat or rhythm. Random. Swaying. With gusto. A single photograph hangs framed on the wall. It's an old picture of a young boy standing beside an old man. Very formal. They stand beside each other, arms at their sides, next to a young sapling, freshly planted in the ground. The man looks at the picture between lunges. Between stretches which increasingly move his entire body's posture in extravagant poses in his room, dawn growing outside. Later, in the kitchen. Though he is fit, we see him extract a whole pa...
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