A writer is not a Renaissance portrait painter!

 I could, with some effort, enter the confusing world of slow and heavy narrative, and achieve results that are not very predictable, with some insult to your sensibilities; or fill a few sleepless hours with lewd scenes, in which I would hardly limit myself to being an external and impartial witness. In any case, literature has this: setting up the writer as a representative of fleeting, fluid experiences and ideas, little given to logical discipline, would force me to vacillate between contrasting opinions and interests. Overcoming the absurdity of verbiage and establishing a difficult balance, capable of balancing all these tensions at a point of unveiling, prolonged by the renewal of internal acts and decisions --- a huge disarray in the realm of expectations, right? A writer is not a Renaissance portrait painter, and intimate life in today's world can only be described through a perplexed and weakened vigilance, far removed from the immutable baronial splendor with which a court celebrity expected to see himself transposed onto the canvas by the artist's hand. It would really require a great deal of narrative and descriptive indiscretion (not to mention what can be done with dialogue!) to reach the seething core of the embryonic opulence of those feelings that you two expressed a moment ago. In this sense, the drink here does nothing to help outline a provident calculation.