Love among the ruins?

Discontent is not necessarily a mood which the gods reserved only for winters. For someone on good terms with misfortune and frequently forsaken by the charms of happy tidings, the hells are all too lasting, not seasonal. However, devoted missionaries of hope, true to their vocation, would not subscribe to such a view of life. They would perceive dim suggestions of music in the fallen leaves, a sort of love among the ruins. But poverty, forgive me for bringing this subject to the fore because such being the dictates of my heart today, makes no allowance for such possibilities. Those accustomed to holier wines from heaven are conceivably in poor circumstance to understand this battle. Isn’t it bemusing, if this dichotomy is anything to go by, that most often than not profusion of gold is accompanied by the poverty of thought? Surely, life is a comedy full of errors.