Your vanity and my vanity will never be friends.
Alone, I am satisfied with myself. With others, I am beset by troubling comparisons.
Interpreting the dance: young women in white dancing in a ring can only be virgins; old women in black dancing in a ring can only be witches; but middle-aged women in colors, square dancing...?
The avant-garde is now stranded in the past.
Intelligence in isolation turns to aimless marauding.
I am kept in bondage by the moles of my beloved.