My life is a canvas, once painted with broad free strokes of the brush with a bold design of colour and movement, now become crabbed and petty, crouched into one corner, which is then enlarged to fill out the vacuum left by my lost physical freedom.
Now and then the small things creep out from the shadows,
From under the damp stones,
Tiny lizards slithering out silently to bask in the warm sun.
Time, my lord, keeps a wallet at his back,
wherein he puts alms for oblivion.
(Troilus and Cressida)