What__ the old saying? Ah, I remember now. __uriosity flayed the cat alive, ripped it apart limb from limb, and listened to it scream before it killed it._ That__ the one.

Suddenly summoned to witness something great and horrendous, we keep fighting not to reduce it to our own smallness.

Fate would never permit happiness to a man of such talent-a content poet is a mediocre one, a happy poet is insufferable.

it was dawning on me how uphill a poet's path was, and I confessed to her that if I had to be the choice between being happy or being a poet, I'd choose to be happy.

I wish I knew how to get you back. And apparently fate won't let me give up"From Central Park Song: a Screenplay

Surely there is a knowing behind it all. There is a teacher, an expresser, a creator, an artist perhaps, a poet certainly that has designed and presented all of the clues that we need to navigate life with some degree of grace, and perhaps with a greater degree of happiness than we now have.