they climb into bed. they are young but they are well aware that she has gone. & they know she will not return. red faces & runny noses, incoherent demands in between the catching of breaths. her absence could not stop them from growing & their bitterness could stop the flowers from blooming in the spring.
Time cannot wait. it is not in Time's nature. one understands this while the other does not. one clings to poetry, art & music. the other notices the flowers at his feet. he does not pick them. he nurtures them, feeds them & keeps them hydrated. he sees the beauty in their growth.
he clings to nature the way she has clung to literature. and in spite all of this, he drains himself. he drains himself while searching for the Forms. those intangible things we as philosophers have trouble defining. truth, beauty, love and the like.
growing alone has been burdensome but to the spectators, to the audience: he remains beautiful.
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