Both nuns and mothers worship images,
But those the candles light are not as those
That animate a mother’s reveries,
But keep a marble or bronze repose.
And yet they too break hearts - O Presences
That passion, piety or affection knows,
And all that heavenly glory symbolise -
O self-born mockers of man’s enterprise;

Labour is blossoming or dancing where
The body is not bruised to pleasure soul,
Nor beauty born out of its own despair,
Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil.
O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer,
Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?
O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance?

— W.B. Yeats

I am a selfish, heartless coward.

it was my fault

it was all my fault

I flew a rocket too far into the sky without doing my calculations

without thinking how it might hurt you