Those were days of roses . . . all I had was you . . .

Sometimes, it comes over me. People have different names for it. I liked Truman Capote’s “The Mean Reds” but, well, Tennessee Williams wrote about it, gave it most tellingly to Blanche DuBois. I like to delude myself that only people of almost unbearably intense sensitivity suffer from it. Sometimes the world is just too much. You think you’ve recovered, moved on, moved past, but, well . . .  sometimes it comes over me.

 

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