I have a friend who is very special to me. He’s sweet and exceptionally intelligent, but, well - he’s not really a - I mean, a relationship between us would be impossible. It would never, could never, work out.
“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?”
“There was an old, crazy dude who used to live a long time ago. His name was Lord Buckley. And he said, a long time ago, he said, “People—they’re kinda like flowers, and it’s been a privilege walking in your garden.” My love goes with you.”