The other day, with my usual immaculate timing, I quoted Shakespeare's famous line from Sonnet 18:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May
I definitely did not have this terrifying spectacle in mind:
Not least because this was just a tiny part of the result:
Sometimes, even for a loquatious fellow like me, there are no words, just a sort of mute, helpless sympathy which is made all the more frustrating because of its uselessness.
