With every physical pain, my moral fibre unravels a little.
Something is sticking out its tongue at me from the corner of my mirror.
The interest in Wisdom is fading. Soon there will not be enough left to support the aphorism, even though it tries to amuse by half-mocking the Wisdom it propounds.
When sages commend excess, Desire is sick.
The smile of a politician is strong and friendly, but noncommittal.
Sentimentality is the respect the cold-hearted pay to feeling.