This perhaps is my conceit then, that if it weren't for the mechanics of life distracting the soul, I would be free to be a genius.
Instead, I am merely corrupt. And indigent. And restless. And bored.
Now I have bills to pay. And places to go. And a body to feed.
Once every seven days, come a few unguarded moments; sans hunger, pain, body, or breath, I am magnificent.
And then life comes crowding back in.