For I have done this unto myself, purged of my greatest triumph and folly; Jour de ma vie! A riled, wild muse in which I sowed and pruned elation and sorrow and whetted the Gemini blade of melancholy and happiness.
Now, the strings of my heart are as phlegmatic as they have ever been, an expectant calm.
Lethargically, beneath my slender chest they bind, curl, twist and grope.
Like the rolling of a train, they beckon a crescendo, crying out for it in whispering dialects.
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