Reading Anaïs has made me long for the ideal. Perhaps it is foolish and naive to do so, but I do enjoy thinking that somewhere that man exists out there.
He's probably making passionate love to his boyfriend right now.
Sigh.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
admit impediments; love is not love
that alters when it alteration finds,
or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
whose worth's unknown, although his height is taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Too much to ask?
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