Like when you know by all you hold dear and holy and to be without shadow of doubt what you swore on the grave of your great aunt Matilda's Spectoral Delecore, that all you hold brave, and every belief you may think hold to keys to the grave that you won't, ever, want anyone, ever to feel, that that is the way that you did.
Or perhaps wanted, either this way or that to have felt a bit more, perhaps a bit less just because that's a cause that you know, only you know who can dismay.
Capice!
