The Story So Far

Why is the mind of man so apt to be swayed by contraries? why does the
imagination forever paint the impossible in glittering tints, and the hearts
of wayward mortals cling, with the greatest tenacity, to what, eel-like, is
bent on escaping from their grasp? Why—to bring the matter home—is
solitude abhorrent to me, now that I enjoy it in perfection? I have
apostrophized the coy nymph in ballrooms, when the bright lamps of
heaven were shamed by brighter earthstars, and lamented her absence at
a picnic party, where the nightingale was silenced by the fiddle.

_{Now go write a paragraph and make it someone else's problem. 🖋️}