I'm sorry for the way my brisk stride disturbs the settled atmosphere of the air around me. The air did nothing to deserve that. I felt lost until you found me, then I left before I could find myself. Now there isn't a leaf, blown carelessly onto the pavement, that I couldn't disturb with the weight of my heavy shuffling. How worthy is a master carpenter without a developed taste for art in their work? I'd rather be the architect- at least then you'd be immortalized in my imagination, instead of the cause of momentary lapses in my concentration.