And I, a lonely poet, find that even words cannot bring a joy that outweighs the sting of loneliness felt when all that accompanies me is a memory of something that once was and a dream of how it ought to be. Woe is the lonely poet. Woe is the man so tranquilized by anguish that he offers himself no other option but to relish in it. Woe is the soul trapped inside a body controlled by a tempered mind. Woe is the tempered mind ready to rid itself of a soul. Ode to the art they will both produce.