A feeling inside coils you up, ready to pounce. [+Bile]
The four humors ebb and flow through the bodies of all God's children. As any natural philosopher knows, their proportions in human tissue change many times in the course of a single day, let alone on the lifelong trek from diapers to dirt.
You've certainly felt them all. Sometimes Blood surges through your passages, bright and warming, the humor of the reckless dreamer. Sometimes 'tis Melancholy you spy shrinking along like chilled treacle, the humor of the conscientious worrywart. Sometimes Bile scorches through like a druggist's tonic, the humor of the aggressive striver. And other times Phlegm settles atop your jangled nerves like a surgeon's plaster, the humor of the tranquil observer.
Standing in the grass, you think afresh how fine it'd be to achieve a pristine balance and be unerringly ready for action or caution, lashing out or letting go, as suits the moment. But, as with most things you've observed in sixteen years in a predominantly unfair world, the golden mean looks more like alchemist's iron the harder you examine it.
Onward