The desire to perform impedes conversation.
Saying "I feel guilty" is a mere form of words. Saying "I feel ashamed" is not.
Sleepy-head is no longer aroused by tragic imaginings.
The desire to create literature leads to frights, grunts, and coy looks.
When I go out, I hope to leave the worst of myself at home.
As the tenor roars his passion, I think sadly of my spreading middle, and his.