The poem itself is quite dead, and
has been for some time. It seems
people only wish to continue writing
its epitaph. Though myself, despite all
modern comforts, I sometimes
find small relief in such rememb
rances. Sluggish and stubborn, like weeping
children, we someday must face the
fact of it. Loss is like the dentist.
Someday we will run
out of excuses.