Why don't you just kill me?

I sometimes covet phronesis. Wishful thinking, perhaps, to assume it would temper my sudden griefs. I shy from using the term “violent griefs” because my mind is still ripe from the pounding it received at the meeting. Luke’s paper on violence seemed just an excuse to drink the Corpus Christi wine. But all these digressions distress me so. Am I not capable of discipline of any sort? My tutor has decided to take draconian measures to keep my wild and untamed metaphors in check.
I want only that my grief be checked. The grief that in quite an admirable display of coquetry coaxes me to lie like a turquoise in the depths of the Teesta. The dream, the triumphant return of the exile weighs on my soul. The need of more beauty than mine is required to sustain you, him, a grief.



(Niggling passages. Albee's latest wasn't impressive.)