This and that cascading the pages, the wish I was/wish I– ages the face and wearies the bones, all the stones in the head, the bread and water in bed. Subtle tyranny is what you bought into when you fell into those roily thoughts, the oily haves and burnished have-naughts. Rehearsing your elegy should grant you some clemency, but you were younger then, offended less easy, and much more yes-pleasing. Sentimental has its place, but it traces too many lines on your page-blurred face.