Eric
His happiness was not a constant thing. It varied from moment to moment. One such moment he would be esctatic, in the throes of passion for a piece of music, or a passing beauty. The next, he would be crying, without really knowing the reason why. The unnameability of his moods was troubling. Was it self-pity? Was it self-indulgence? But since the only practical use of knowing what his troubles were was to cure them, he was quite content to remain ignorant. Content. Yes, he was, for the most part, content. That mortal sin of covetousness was not one that he entertained much. And that he attributed to a chronic laziness that he never roused himself to shake off. There were many things that he attributed to this laziness, so many that he found it useful to keep it, and keep reminding other people of it.