Why, then your ambition makes it one.

O ambition! You fickle lover, you, you’re the kind I’d sacrifice everything for and then find myself destitute. When I come to you, penniless and hopeless, you pretend you don’t know me.

But when it’s good, when I’m chasing you, I’m trailing your wind to fly higher than ever. The problems come when you take a sharp turn and I fall from your current, so far, so far, sometimes crashing into hillsides and cliffs, face broken, skin torn, broken bones.

Then I wish I’d never met you then I wish I were the sort of person who’d never heard of ambition, the kind who might be content with what she has, with the comforts and structures of home.

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