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Processing Unit.

      “Autumn

There is a wind where the rose was;
Cold rain where sweet grass was;
   And clouds like sheep
   Stream o'er the steep
Grey skies where the lark was.

Nought gold where your hair was;
Nought warm where your hand was;
   But phantom, forlorn,
   Beneath the thorn,
Your ghost where your face was.

Sad winds where your voice was;
Tears, tears where my heart was;
   And ever with me,
   Child, ever with me,
Silence where hope was.”

—Walter de la Mare

Black Squares Before Malevich.

Google ignoring my quotemarks shouldn't feel like a violation, & yet it does.

A terminal patient contemplates Rembrandt paintings at the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, one final time.