April 15: A sixth part of the quarter, beloved interval of the Philistine.
And Lear cried out, "I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness; / I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children, / You owe me no subscription."
At least something, somewhere, somehow, was not taxed: if only in the realms of dream summoned forth by the Bard of Avon.
But Narcissus-X taxed must be, and much taxed with regret that so much time is lost forever, collecting records, filling forms, filing financial facts. Time in which Narcissus-X could have traversed the charcoal-clouded vastness of Xanadu's dream.
But now the forms are gone, cast into the bureaucratic abyss from whence they came: and art may live again.
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