Their idleness, aimless and languid airs.

To the one who loves me for myself and despite of; whose noble aspirations gave way for proletariat ambitions; who is capable of so much more if only your heart had less to give; whose smile enraptures my soul- there is nothing else in the world that vexes me so.

Thus the ambiguity of an april evening ended in a swansong of in-betweens and semi-vigilant resolves; vows that would be taken in the morning and duly forgotten by noon. Were it not for my strange inclination for lesser repose and an obligation to the host I would have ruminated over the precarious affair (surely with all our thougts left unsaid) or for a minute deviate from my headlong prescription of a galvanized heart.

How one has the capacity to pardon another for his afflictions, misdemeanor and scapegrace days is in a word inconceivable but I suppose love is altogether an abhorrence herself- what with bleak prospects of yearning, temporal melancholy (because everything is unspeakably beautiful your heart aches in loveliness); also the contrived despondency we waylay upon ourselves twelvemonth hence.

So we dignify our frivolity passing off as blithe libertine spirits and as soulmates there really is no better way than this. Your lyrical presence is even more so bewitching unattained.