Young poets bewail the passing of love; old poets, the passing of time. There is surprisingly little difference.
The aphorism is a slippery plaything.
Nostalgia paints a smile on the stony face of the past.
Most of us live in a world that has ceased to exist.
Striving toward a goal puts a more pleasing construction on our advance toward death.
Attachments and bereavements are inseparable.