Sometimes, I feel like charging at windmills.
Just go and stick a lance through a propeller and hanging on for dear life as the whole bloody motherfucking thing does a rotation and slamming me 50 feet to the ground.
Sometimes, I really do feel like an old man in a suit of armour, fuzzy in the head, charging at nothing. All for chivalry. The books of chivalry. All in the name of the illusion that is Dulcinella del Toboso. Who is no fine lady, but a whore. Or probably just a very loud bar girl.
What would you be, then? Sancho Panza? Or the Kinght of Mirrors? Maybe Knight of the Moon?
I really do feel like him, sometimes. A knight-errant. Or an errant knight. Hundreds of years after our time. Our expiry date.