A Critique of None Other.

A cheerful, sanguine lark drenched in naivete, this facade has been the epithet and bane of my existence.

Having, therefore, determined to commit to the metrical pattern I'd perceived to be flawless and that I, was, in fact the deviation of accordance, from this inspiration, I drew strength and resolve.

"Do the right thing, Mich," came the prattling disparagement from none other than myself.

Like all good intentions gone awry, however, I found myself falling slowly astern, away from the roaring chorus of blithe patterns in some measure.

If what I did was proceeded to correction, then why, pray, tell me, why, was that unobtrusive volition a pretext for disorder?

Withdrawing into my shell, I engaged notice entirely to myself. Castigation ran rampant and had a field day. For by it, a barrage of acrid reflections mounted.

And it all seems perfect.
That's how she wants it.

A sulfurous denunciation indeed.

***
I would conform to any regulations, any restrictions if they would only let me enjoy the garden.

Henry James, The Aspern Papers

***