The poet was cursing the misery of his life. The small hermitage
in the centre of a large city that he now shared with Mr. Nothing
and Platocrates witnessed many of his misfortunes. Once conceived
by chance, he was always a child of unrequited love, but did not seem
to notice that maybe it had something to do with the unwise choice
of objects of his affection. At least that was what Mr. Nothing thought.
Perhaps his brethren could understand that, in fact, the poet was fond of
the misery of his life.
hidden pilcrow 