We're Not Meant For Happiness, You And

...as The Slow Sea Sucked At The Shore And Then Withdrew, Leaving The Strip Of Seaweed Bare And The Shingle Churned, The Sea Birds Raced And Ran Upon The Beaches. Then That Same Impulse To Flight Seized Upon Them Too. Crying, Whistling, Calling, They Skimmed The Placid Sea And Left The Shore. Make Haste, Make Speed, Hurry And Begone; Yet Where, And To What Purpose? The Restless Urge Of Autumn, Unsatisfying, Sad, Had Put A Spell Upon Them And They Must Flock, And Wheel, And Cry; They Must Spill Themselves Of Motion Before Winter Came.

Time Will Mellow It, Make It A Moment For Laughter. But Now It Was Not Funny, Now I Did Not Laugh. It Was Not The Future, It Was The Present. It Was Too Vivid And Too Real.

There Is No Going Back In Life. There Is No Return. No Second Chance.

If Only There Could Be An Invention That Bottled Up A Memory, Like Scent. And It Never Faded, And It Never Got Stale. And Then, When One Wanted It, The Bottle Could Be Uncorked, And It Would Be Like Living The Moment All Over Again.

What About The Hero Of The House On The Strand? What Did It Mean When He Dropped The Telephone At The End Of The Book? I Don't Really Know, But I Rather Think He Was Going To Be Paralysed For Life. Don't You?