Unhappiness is too common to call for special measures.

Beauty is lyrical. Ugliness is elegiac.

Without asceticism, self-indulgence would be insignificant.

With every physical pain, my moral fibre unravels a little.

I feel disappointed, but I don't remember just what I expected.

I pursue pleasure, but stingily, suspiciously.

The plastic surgeon's knife slashes at time, which may seem to retreat, but then keeps on coming.