The thoughts fantastical of my mind are not constrained by any common measure. No box, or cube, nor rigid square have form enough to tame their fretful flight.
No purpose do they ever serve, save only to amuse an idle addled head, made sour by Fortune's fickle favour. By little and little of her good looks degraded, then bleak of hope and sorely jaded.
Yet hope - foul and wretched word - is still the force that drives them.
And by its nature bound are all hapless souls beguiled to blissful schemes of mad invention,Which ever fruitless fly 'gainst Fate's contrary winds.
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