All fled—all done, so lift me on the pyre — The Feast is over, and the lamps expire.
I ordinarily don’t like rooting through my juvenilia for a couple of reasons: First, it never seems as good as I’d remembered. And second, all the dust stirred up in the process gives me an allergy attack, and I sneeze for the rest of the night. But this old cartoon I drew for Golden Words about ten years ago came up in conversation with Kitty, and she demanded to see it, so here it is.
(A special prize to the first person who can guess what I was reading in my early twenties, judging by the title of the post.*)
*Offer will not be honoured.
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