slobbering over the guilt of marrying a peacock to a wren

Take a scouring pad to your heart and scrub it clean from the filth that collects over time of misuse. Do this by rocking back and forth violently on a boat that is sinking during a cursed wind storm where your chances of survival mimic the misfortune of plague driven cattle run amok.

If you survive, relish in the freedom that promulgates. If you do not, consider it a simple exercise of imagination that has failed.