Every act is a substitute for, let's say, love.
I don't know about you, but I'd rather make love than anything else, even more than writing this, but the woman I love is pissed. I especially like cold nights, although sun-streamed afternoons can bring moments you read about in hymnals. I regret each wasted night, knowing there is a time limit to every life, that I'm least alive when money, or the arsenal of nuclear weapons, the everyday destruction, and the lack of love show up on every newscast. Stop what you're doing. There is not much time left.