Love is a peculiar thing.
We are always on stage, even when we are stabbed in earnest at the end.
The statue of Freedom has not been cast yet, the furnace is hot, we can all still burn our fingers.
Only one thing abides: an infinite beauty that passes from form to form, eternally changed and revealed afresh.
How many women does one need to sing the scale of love all the way up and down?
And for tired eyes every light is too bright, and for tired lips every breath too heavy, and for tired ears every word too much.