Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed . . . — from Percy Bysshe Shelley, “Ozymandias”She keeps adding wine to the sauce. He’s there, tasting it with a wooden spoon, saying it’s bold enough already, but she pours more, glugs of it, already reaching for another bottle. She can’t cook, not a whit.