I won’t do it anymore. Never.
I walk around the edge when I say that Juliet’s balcony in Verona is actually a sarcophagus. They threw out some nonsense left there from antiquity and lifted it up in the courtyard of her house in a new quality. There was a sarcophagus of death, and became the balcony of love. Love conquers death. The former, they say, collapsed from time to time. Reconstruction.
What I was incurred to lay out the truth the other day, I do not know. I became tired.
But here – laid out. There was no balcony. There was a window. Throughout the vast vocabulary of William of our Shakespeare, in plays, in sonnets, there is no balcony. Although the concept was with him, it is necessary. And the word balcony in English too.
Obviously, someone’s young lips began to twist, and I caught a couple of gaze of unkind female eyes.
He gave Mach. Continue reading