To watch you fill a glass, so very careful not to over-pour, is an exquisite pain. You re-purpose the glass to dominate the liquid it is meant to serve. Abomination or just folly? Will you not see this, know this, as choosing a pauper's existence? The regal hold nothing very tightly.
Then we know how you choose words. The miserly touch which surely affronts your better nature. The resultant acid that indigests you, pushes you away from the table. Such grand tableau unborn then. And so I must explain: word, line, sentence, and whatever follows: they exist only as servants to your command. No one remembers the peasant. Live as Queen then.
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