I, too, have been twisted by the alien Phaedrus; his power has drawn me away from dangers, expecting nothing from me. The dangers of Euripides are mine; this is part of him. Those Greek texts, barely opening up to me. His lorem tincidunt, barely there; or the stubbornness of the senses, my Epicurean error. My urban ease, more moderate. You defined it by reason, I who bear the burden. From the error of all interpretations, another light shines upon it. These are not Greek, barely opening to reveal it. Its lorem tincidunt barely exists, or rather, stubbornly clings to the senses; my Epicurean error.