My intentions go one way, my desires another. Thus I feel both self-indulgent and deprived.
The harp is an insipid instrument--no good for dancing, feasting, or marching, only for sitting primly in a parlor or on a cloud.
Talent shuffles the deck. Genius brings a new deck.
Bad faith makes the most of every ambiguity.
My neglected duties crowd around me in my dreams, murmuring.
The truths I shun follow me, mumbling.