And this is the only immortality you and i may share, my Lolita.
The lost glove is happy.
At eight, he had once told his mother that he wanted to paint air.
Most of the dandelions had changed from suns to moons.
The contemplation of beauty, whether it be a uniquely tinted sunset, a radiant face, or a work of art, makes us glance back unwittingly at our personal past and juxtapose ourselves and our inner being with the utterly unattainable beauty revealed to us.
Oh, let me be mawkish for the nonce! I am so tired of being cynical.