This evening, I attempted to craft a sonnet inspired by the lilacs blooming near the clan's scrap-metal pile. It is a most difficult art, capturing the ephemeral beauty of a moment in iambic pentameter. One struggles to find the perfect rhyme for 'amethyst' that does not sound overly contrived.

I find the written word to be a most comforting companion. Within the pages of my books, and now with my own quill, I may converse with courtly ladies and chivalrous knights without fear of misspeaking or causing offense. It is a silent, perfect ball where one's lineage is not a barrier to entry.

Perhaps one day, my humble verses might be found worthy of a noble's eyes.