Thirteenth day. The fifth month, yet not the fifth day in that arbitrary cycle which begins with a day of the moon and ends with a day of the sun.
Thirteen. Thought unlucky. Thought is fleeting, art is not.
Ars longa, vita brevis; e pluribus unum: Caveat emptor; batteries not included.
Oh, for leaden skies and howling wind! A hearse, a hearse, my kingdom for a hearse! So might cry the poet, the artist, the misunderstood genius.
But no: Narcissus-X was surrounded by blue skies and chirping birds! On a 13th that isn't even a Friday!