The world's decay where the wind's hands have passed, And my head, worn out with love, at rest In my hands, and my hands full of dust.

What happened casually remains -

The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated. And the only thing people regret is that they didn't live boldly enough, that they didn't invest enough heart, didn't love enough. Nothing else really counts at all.

The real mystery is this strange need. Why can't we just hide it and shut up? Why do we have to blab? Why do human beings need to confess?

Show him every dawn & read to him endlessly.

where are the gods the gods hate us the gods have run away the gods have hidden in holes the gods are dead of the plague they rot and stink too there never were any gods there’s only death

And as if reporting some felony to the police they let you know you were not John Donne.