Young poets bewail the passing of love; old poets, the passing of time. There is surprisingly little difference.
Anxiety and lust are evicting the older passions.
Lead the reader toward the thought, then stop a little short.
Fruitless striving breeds less despair than inaction.
The banker rubs his nose, thinking of his cat stalking something on the lawn.
Talent shuffles the deck. Genius brings a new deck.