When I say that I can't draw. I mean it. How is possible that my eyes see beauty in every flake of dust while my hand is not able to reproduce anything on a piece of paper?  How is possible that my mind grasps infinity and my fingers stay still, unable to give shape to such a wonder? If the limit of your language is the limit of your world, I guess this is mine. 

"To muse for long unwearied hours with my attention rivetted to some frivolous device upon the margin, or in the typography of a book", says Egaeus, describing his condition, that has become extremely unpleasant for him.  I rather enjoy these brief moments of pointless focus.