This afternoon in the course of a brief study break I happened across Whiskey's blog post complaining of the pains he'd been suffering on account of Dwight's having tossed a certain seed of a notion with an as it were almost thoughtless sweep in his direction, such that he was kept up late thinking on this little wild oat, until he finally had to denounce it as a weed and root it out. And I myself am here now to put the blame in my turn on Whiskey himself for turning my day into a mockery of studiousness by drawing my attention to bear on that same thought with an uncontrollable fixity. Instead of studying I let my obsession sweep me up and flew off into yet another fragmentary dissertation on the "topic" of the language of poetry. It took me the remainder of the afternoon, and my supposed assignments all were cast aside.
You can read it here, and judge for yourself what may come of indulging one's hobbyhorse, and whether it is vanity or a true sense of duty which draws one into such intemperate excursions.