Outside literature, high-flown sentiments are merely exasperating.
As I criss-cross the city hurrying, I feel always the unchanging cold beneath the pavement.
Procrastination and impatience form a system of checks and balances.
Who would not give up wit for power and beauty?
Self-realization sounds good. But what if only an enraged dwarf emerges?
As a youth, I sought out decadence; as an elder, I try to avoid decay.