Their idleness, aimless and languid airs.

"Alas, what are you after all, my written and painted thoughts? It was not long ago that you were still so colorful, young, and malicious, full of thorns and secret spices- you made me sneeze and laugh- and now? You have already taken off your novelty, and some of you are ready, I fear, to become truths; they already look so immortal, so pathetically decent, so dull!"


It confounds me: the brazen zest I pride in living and feeling; not merely surviving but existing; not the intersperses of high emotion but unfolding season after season in deference to love and pity; pity, love -so primitive and wild yet so expertly contrived! The days I discarded to happenstance I flung to forgetfulness as well.

And the serpentine and transposed heart in which my conceit was enshrined, I jealously guarded with smiles.