I scribble rarely now, distracted by parties and people and politics. Foolishness seems more weighty than merit and the rustling of warm days does not drive me to diligence. I feel I betray myself with merriment, as though it were my job rather than my release. I do build, but is it child's play or vanity or investment?
My heart is hidden and does not call loudly in any one direction. Days fly by on froth, distraction and busy idleness. Nearly a whole day is justified for rest due to a revolving door of society the days before. Where is industry and ingenuity? Why does all this fat only leave my energy lean?
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