When One Is Writing A Novel In

I Have No Talent For Making New Friends, But Oh Such Genius For Fidelity To Old Ones.

We Can See The Film Stars Of Yesterday In Yesterday’s Films, Hear The Voices Of Poest And Singers On A Record, Keep The Plays Of Dead Dramatists Upon Our Bookshelves, But The Actor Who Holds His Audience Captive For One Brief Moment Upon A Lighted Stage Vanishes Forever When The Curtain Falls.

How Simple Life Becomes When Things Like Mirrors Are Forgotten.

This House Sheltered Us, We Spoke, We Loved Within Those Walls. That Was Yesterday. To-day We Pass On, We See It No More, And We Are Different, Changed In Some Infinitesimal Way. We Can Never Be Quite The Same Again.

... And Through It All And Afterwards They Would Be Together, Making Their Own World Where Nothing Mattered But The Things They Could Give To One Another, The Loveliness, The Silence, And The Peace.