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Leaf-whelmed.

The lostness of the managers is simply this, that they do not know how to swim.

77.

"Tristia

I have learned the art of departure
In loose-haired lamentations of the night.
The oxen chew, the waiting continues –
It is the last hour of the city watch.
And I honor the ritual of that darkness
When, bearing up the sorrow of the road,
Tearful eyes looked into the distance
And a woman's tears mixed with the muses' song.

Who can say, when hearing the word 'departure,'
What kind of separation we have in store?
What does the rooster’s cry foretoken
When a fire burns in the acropolis?
And at the dawn of some new life,
While an ox lazily chews its cud in the stall,
Why does the rooster, herald of a new life,
Beat his wings on the city wall?

And I admire the habitude of spinning –
The shuttle whirrs, the spindle hums –
Look, here comes barefoot Delia already,
Flying at us as swansdown flies!
Oh, our life’s meager foundation,
How scanty is the language of joy!
All has already been, and all shall be repeated,
And only the moment of recognition is sweet.

Let it be so: a small transparent figure
Lies on a spotless platter of clay –
Even so a squirrel pelt looks spread-eagled.
A maiden leans over it and studies the wax.
It is not for us to tell fortunes about Erebus.
What wax is to women, bronze is to men.
Our lot is cast for us only in battle,
While they in fortune-telling meet their end."

--Bernstein's Mandelshtam

This is not computer graphics.