Inspiration can on occasion be a surprising unwilling bedfellow. She will avoid advances, ignore even subtle glances, be steadfast in her wholly deceiving demureness, rising easily above every bribe or seduction it is within capacity to bring to bear. This is not necessarily an indication of fickleness, not even a spat of false modesty, rather it is the occasioned nature of the pursued in the treacherous sport described so inscrutably as love. Romance is after all little but pretense, a cunningly formed mirage to contrive immunity from charges of rapacious attraction and release. Considered by the wisest and most devout of our ancestors as the basest of emotions, predications, the dance of Zeus and Hera, with the occasional participatory contributions of seeming all other Hellenic players, is consigned as an unworthy dalliance for any purpose but antiseptic procreation.
My vigilant and ongoing pursuit is obliged however by a long-standing aversion to any form of other gladiatorial contest.