recognition.

If at some point I were to lie dying - unlikely, I don't like to lie down for too long, aggravates the back and slows thought - and if during that time a nameless Someone were to ask, offhandedly, "What did you do?" - with the understanding that whatever I did was about to give way permanently to all the things I had done - I would say:

I loved too well, or not well enough, depending on the season and the weather and on the voice of the person to whom I proclaimed love; I tried too much, too often, with too little commitment to the yield of the effort, and as a result, I was always three-quarters-pleased with half a result; I never forgot anything, no matter how hard I tried, and I was constantly straining to recall something I suspected might have been a dream.

There's no way around it but to admit that I miss everything I've ever lost, because if I didn't miss it, it wouldn't really be a loss, it'd just be something that isn't around anymore, and I probably wouldn't even remember it.



These are all just words, but I like the look of them here better than I like the sound of them in my head.