All worldly pursuits end in sorrow but there is a wife somewhere who loves pink petals, cherry, and admits to being imperfect in ways that make her perfect even though she is as absent as the rest of the pink petals in winter. She is being called in as many truthful and silent ways as peace make it feasible, love being the most fearless motor-heart. Songs of love hold the night tight. Entitlement to happiness, say the road and wood steps, with or without her. Same story with: There is a husband somewhere who loves pink petals...
To day we love what to morrow we hate; To day we seek what to morrow we shun; To day we desire what to morrow we fear, nay, even tremble at the apprehensions of... - Daniel Defoe, Robinson Crusoe (and a useful reminder:) Blissful within, I don't entertain The notion "I'm suffering" When incessant rain is pouring outside. - Milarepa