I forget the name of that William Wordsworth poem where he poignantly points to the paradox of human grief: on losing his daughter Dora, he assures himself that time is a true healer but is so shattered when he realizes that in that process he remembers less of her.
He being who he is wrote it well enough; I am sure scholars have dissected that work better than I can. I thought it was worth pointing to, as an analogy: thoughts that consume one's vacant isolated nights at times deserve better than being abandoned after Zoloft.
He being who he is wrote it well enough; I am sure scholars have dissected that work better than I can. I thought it was worth pointing to, as an analogy: thoughts that consume one's vacant isolated nights at times deserve better than being abandoned after Zoloft.
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