Spontaneity is the province of youth
The harp sounds at each passing breeze, but that does not mean the tune is masterfully played.
There are those who are awkward in the face of sorrow, fearing to say the wrong thing; to them, I say, there is no wrong in comfort, ever. A kind word, a consoling arm ... these things are ever welcome.
A nervous silence loosens tongues
Night breeds its own sort of anticipation.
Surely if we knew what bitterness fate held in store, we would shrink back in fear and let the cup of life pass us by untasted.