Soup and clouds

My mad little beloved was giving me dinner, and through the open window of the dining room, I contemplated the moving architectures that God makes with vapors, the marvelous constructions of the impalpable. And I said to myself, through my contemplation: “All these fantasmagorias are nearly as beautiful as the eyes of my beautiful beloved, the monstrous little madwoman with green eyes.”

And all at once I received a violent blow with a fist in my back, and I heard a raucous and charming voice, a voice hysterical and as if hoarsened with brandy, the voice of my dear little beloved, who was saying: “Are you going to hurry up and eat your soup, blasted cloudmongering blighter?”

Charles Baudelaire