I am opal, as hesitancy and the denouements of time refuse to allow my shade to settle.
I am a sporatic convulsion, the sudden burst of energy that accompanies passion and refuses to exist in a regular and expected pattern.
I am a sigh, be it out of contentment or impasse, based upon my own ubsurd preferences and those of onlookers alike.
I am the creeping sloth, for who knows what my victories would include were I to be revived from this ghastly lethargy.
I am that incommodious radio advertisement: loud, infomative, and abiding with a brightly musical background.
I could be no figure but 68.7, that in baffling selection and lack of reason, I in time will have found my designated reason.
I am the ankles that carry its superior appendages, harboring thoughts of ascension and grandeur from beneath shin and calf.
I am the antique rocking chair residing in the corner, cloaked in lace and remaining vacant save the juncture of occasion.
I am a spread of marmalade, the sweet substance of which can only be savored in timely moderation.
I am the human voice, whose assonant tones could never be compared with synthetic devices.
I am the ions within our atmosphere, painting the sky at day's close for no other motive than aesthetics.
I am the sakura tree, my fuschia pedals a commercial aspect of beauty and grace while lacking the depth of concept.
Mediocrity presents apprehension in me like nothing else, and so there is no doubt that the word behind this veil of flesh and ego is "inhibition".