I.M. Worn beret, awaiting retire, sable clad, seeking solitude. Ten angry men stare at me.
Intermittent arrivals into stygian crypts. Two men in a roomy orange enclosure stand upon the top floor.
Above bacchanal's hedonistic animals they can be seen observing from the floor-to-ceiling window.
An icon holds presence and lacks grandeur. Ambition builds a tower; purpose forgets a vanity.