There's never enough time until you have too much of it. I've got songs backed up and plays unfinished. I'm beginning to think my masterpiece won't get painted. Is it the green bananas that I shouldn't buy or the brown acid?
On a good day I'm unsure whether I'm a gentleman of leisure or a common bum. My wardrobe indicates the latter. Of course if I pull on my velvet, formal slippers and drizzle the Red Bush on my ice cream while I wax poetic on romance, I might pass myself off as an eccentric sonneteer.
I'm left with mostly good intentions.