open your eyes, O idiot, innocent boy, look at what has happened: once there were sunlit days when you followed after where ever a girl would go, she loved with greater love than any woman knew

(Catullus, "here's no time for nonsense") Roman poets give us some wisdom, but they seem to have had a charmed life, with women like these: the Graces of Botticelli, or better yet, Maclise's lovely Madeline, brushing her hair. Of course these were Renaissance (or early 19th century)versions of Romanesque ideals. It doesn't matter. Where are these women today? In my mind. Dwells angels of the highest aeonic order. I dream of rosy lips like Botticelli's Venus, or like that haughty woman reclining on David's couch. The one I love the most recedes from me. Like Cat Stevens sang: a lot of nice things turn bad out there. If I had proleptic power(not like Macbeth's!)I'd recede into the vast quietude of my past, when I rode my bike, wearing a Who t-shirt, trying to make the woman of my dreams love me. Now I KNOW I'm crying like a bitch, but let's be real. What man ever wants to see the woman he loves recede into the misty distance?