And how may I escape that of which I have placed upon myself. In the secret follies admired unjustly by my soul, the caving of my spirit had become known. He is but something only the temporary would happenstance to wish upon. Never at enduring, only at dying, within the slow, subtle, breach of society's echoes. I am laced about my winding thoughts, they dread abut the weary darkness. To a front I play the fool, to live in the life I thought was needed. Never again, will I allow this weakness upon me. I shall not, and will not fear, but only with non-conditional, mandatory rulings placed within my heart. She crosses you plainly, yet you enlist about a warmth of light. She churns in the mixing of the others perspective, and you drool about how one can be so accustomed to conformity. You say you wish upon the unknown wench, the one of the night. The one that calls to the sea, and places her soul in the wind. I, but a feather to the bay at oceans current. Never amongst the thoughts, not even the shadowed ones. "Life would be no more than a succession of days. I wished it to be brief, for the secret follies of passion had become alien to me."-The Princess of Montpensier