There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.
Love is an energy which exists of itself. It is its own value.
Many who have spent a lifetime in it can tell us less of love than the child that lost a dog yesterday.
You swore you loved me, and laughed and warned me that you would not love me forever. I did not hear you. You were speaking in a language I did not understand. Never, never, I can conceive of a love which is able to foresee its own termination. Love is its own eternity. Love is in every moment of its being: all time. It is the only glimpse we are permitted of what eternity is. So I did not hear you. The words were nonsense.
I would love to be the poet laureate of Coney Island.
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