Ah, The Old Questions, The Old Answers,

Friendship, According To Proust, Is The Negation Of That Irremediable Solitude To Which Every Human Being Is Condemned.

All I Know Is What The Words Know, And Dead Things, And That Makes A Handsome Little Sum, With A Beginning And A Middle And An End, As In The Well-built Phrase And The Long Sonata Of The Dead.

The Blind Have No Notion Of Time. The Things Of Time Are Hidden From Them Too.

Birth Was The Death Of Him.

The Essential Doesn't Change.