1. Time gone by; thresholds were crossed and pages were
turned. Where terrible peace was flaunted, I hid me lest I
become devious, delirious, and likewise desirous; I had only
my sentiment to whisper to then, and to listen to, in vain and
beneath despair. I enamoured it, and then I lost it in some
dream.

2. Visible as I was to all that fascinated me, I ended up
blinking out through the chase; but they blinked back at me
evocatively. They urged me to show what I dreamt to see,
but I resisted and refused to let them not let me go. To start
off with yet a new ending for an old poem often desecrated
so, I gathered my composure, and carried out my task.
Immersed in my horror, I would still fare on.

3. If I knew I could reach out to the unreachable, would I be
surprised? Perhaps that is so, and I am anxious to unlearn it
before the answer comes to me. I turn, turn; then I love, and
I know, that all is as it happens, and so am I. But I disbelieve
in me, and I protest, solely because I am the very mason of
the dreams I loathe, loathe so much. There is no integrity left
for the conclusions I draw.

4. Previously I had never felt I believed so much in the
assumption that I am not just dim-witted—instead, I am the
meekest person I have ever known. I hope you have no idea,
but this is a bitter feeling. I cannot speak of the truths I hide,
so I write about them down on my unscathed body, on
otherwise overlooked scraps of paper, and behind the covers
of forgotten notepads, in bewildering medleys of far-fetched
foreign scripts and languages. Making sure I am not
understood, I still dream of a Someone that won't know me
for it.

5. I am a diligent procrastinator with an oblivious vigil on his
mien. A hopeful pessimist, very shy on a daring mind, intent
on indecision; and a love-hungry misanthrope. I am anxious
to speak for my taciturnity, if not so to suffer troths of
abstinence for giving of my superfluous love. I am a boy of
many inconsistencies—I forsook each of my traits in a
separate dream, only to be reimbursed with a surplus of
stardust.

6. At a painstaking night I offered myself to take the
opportunity, and take a respite off my dread. I wanted to be
genuine: Apologise to Lambie for once and embrace it, then
cease my hesitation before the breeze and visit my birds'
graves and tell them I really love them, and gather all the
odes I have composed for all those Beings Beauteous, and
burn them, and watch them burn. I did nothing save for more
dreaming. I am afraid I long all too much for surrendering the
weight of my essence to the safekeeping of a willful man…

7. You, sir or ma'am—do you know what happened to my
credulity?

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Thanks to =blissart and `ginkgografix for the CSS.