goes on for a sweet shuddery infinity wherein we don't remember the difference between tears and music and are happy and cheerful among nothing but hard truths and the very fact of our existence enrages everything that has bad blood in its veins and yet we know to beware of picturesque men and any sterile mosaic of their pretend grace and we are the great benefactors of subtle and broken and supple and token and absolute and remote, all-nearing, change, and hope, of excellent and soothing chaos and reform and homecoming, from generation to generation, weather we know it or not
