The chorus of regret must be deafening.
What sad turns has your life taken since my exile? When you look upon the dour face of the Consul, do you feel the nauseous twinge of regret? Do you find solace in a meditative state—a lonely island in a sea of incessant blathering?
I wonder what portion of your life is spent pondering how else it might have been. All of those possibilities must pile up behind you like a chorus of furies, each whispering doubts in your ear. When next we meet, the volume of that chorus will become deafening, and you will finally understand the totality of your mistake.