"The shapes of men's bodies are miserly, internalized. Nor do they get spoiled like those of young girls, whose bodies never lasts, a summer or so ,perhaps that is all"
The Lover by Marguerite Duras

Arthur: Old man, sorry... What knight lives in that castle over there?
Dennis: I'm 37!
Arthur: What?
Dennis: I'm 37, I'm not old!
Arthur: Well I can't just call you 'Man'...
Dennis: You could say 'Dennis'...
Arthur: I didn't know you were called Dennis.
Dennis: Well you didn't bother to find out, did you?
Arthur: I did say sorry about the old woman, but from behind you looked...
Dennis: (interrupting) What I object to is your automatically treatin' me like an inferior!
Arthur: Well I AM king...

Tonight I Can Write
BY: Pablo Neruda

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to a pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voice. Her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.