I see by Walter Winchell that J.S. Bach put on black gloves to compose a requiem mass. Drawing on my fine command of language, I said nothing. I, too, am awakening as the return of divine love and light, we are one. There's never enough time to do all the nothing you want. You don't have to suffer to be a poet.
Adolescence is enough suffering for anyone.
When two lovers really love, there's nothing left but the suddenly compact universe of skin and breath and hair. I've heard that innocence has lead us all astray. Age does not diminish the extreme disappointment of having a scoop of ice cream fall from the cone. So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past. The wisdom of others remains dull till it is writ over with our own blood.