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Man, proud man,
Drest in a little brief authority,
Most ignorant of what he’s most assur’d,
His glassy essence, like an angry ape,
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven,
As make the angels weep.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616). Isabella, in Measure for Measure, act 2, sc. 2.

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Zarvind started in a cheery vein.  Then he turned darker -- gloomier -- more mysterious.  He's largely a product of his past, and seems to live perpetually in the shadow of it, but I'm working on bringing him into some unseen future time when this boy can find his true calling again.

He was happy once.

Yes, there are shades of Freudianism, dim and half-understood as I perceived them to be in the past years.

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