Today. This Bright New Day That Awaits

The Sad Fact Is That I Love Dickens And Donne And Keats And Eliot And Forster And Conrad And Fitzgerald And Kafka And Wilde And Orwell And Waugh And Marvell And Greene And Sterne And Shakespeare And Webster And Swift And Yeats And Joyce And Hardy, Really, Really Love Them. It’s Just That They Don’t Love Me Back.

And Then Some Days You Wake Up And Everything's Perfect

The Early Days Of Any Relationship Are Punctuated With A Series Of Firsts - First Sight, First Words, First Laugh, First Kiss, First Nudity, Etc., With These Shared Landmarks Becoming More Widely Spaced And Innocuous As Days Turn To Years, Until Eventually You're Left With First Visit To A National Trust Property Or Some Such.

Maybe I've Just Read Too Many Novels. In Novels, Alcoholics Are Always Attractive And Fuuny And Charming And Complex, Like Sebastian Flyte Or Abe North In Tender In The Night, And They're Drinking Because Of A Deep, Unquenchable Sadness Of The Soul, Or The Terrible Legacy Of The First World War, Whereas I Just Get Drunk Because I'm Thirsty, And I Like The Taste Of Lager.

A Moment Passed, Perhaps Half A Second When Their Faces Said What They Felt, And Then Emma Was Smiling, Laughing, Her Arms Around His Neck.