A WATER DRINKER
your corked port, your dotaged Madeira. It is all one to us. Good wine and bad wine are alike now. It is all sour, all bad. “D you, waiter; why can’t you bring us that Salutaris water?” To compose an epitaph on our own dead self is impossible. We can but adopt that of another who died, like ourselves, of a broken heart: “Here lies one whose name was writ in soda-water.”
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