Tell you what, sir - a mind that reflects too much on itself hoodwinks itself all on its own - that much I sure can prove.
I often ascribe mischievous intents to the most placid of ladies and gents.
In the way they smile, or handle their frown; something in their chin, or about their crown; any and all act do I interpret as two-faced tact aimed at a marplot.
Distrust has its use, but in my context, it sucks my life up in a vile vortex. Picture me a secret that I desire to keep. It can be something great, terrible, or - quite cheap.
In any case, it will take not a day for me to come 'cross just 'bout any jay and speak to them thus: "Oh look at me not. I can tell you know, you accursèd clot."
And then I proceed to spill all the beans, quite unrequested, with no tricks or means. You know the worst part? I can never tell if they knew it not or just all too well.
Once I've laid it out, they can safely claim that I taught them naught - that there was no game. I can never know if I let the cat or if from the get-go they smelled a rat.
Thus, my mind spirals deeper into fear that some secret force seeks to toss me smear. Oh weh.