Love can transpose

I think I grow increasingly tired: the landscapes surely shift slower by each year. And still, there is nothing to gainsay the freshest first glimpse into this world - it is ever beautiful still. And ever cruel, heedless. What we have of ourselves is love and literature, feeling and fancy, situation and aspiration. A sweet torment and a most savage, deadly, killing torment. Ever poised, serious and light hearted, us humans here.