I know this tune—they played it at my tenth birthday. It rings out a pantomime of happy premonitions, still mellifluous but moldering with middle age. Autumnal shades embitter spring’s florescence.
How many “I love you’s” remain? One? Not more than two—there is a limit to indecency at every stage and no time to redress the illusions of youth. Answer silence with silence; she will not speak again.
A vacuum drawing breath into nothingness, we whistle our way towards oblivion. Levity predominates, and woe to him who hazards an earnest word. Better to banish sincerity than bear the emptiness of all our giddy laughter.