Those immune to sorrow are as puzzling as sorrow itself. The world apparently chooses to make a few happy, and that's the best it can do. She focuses on the actresses and the sorrow the drama conveys so that her own being fills with tears. He knows producers and directors and watches coldly what he calls the gestures "of a bunch of queers." Even songs leave him cold, and he's a composer. He hurt my poetry. Poems can't be written if you think everything's unfair. For years I felt jealousy and hate, even when accident was there, and wrote and couldn't write good poems. Luck eventually made me happy and finally I lived. I simply had to wait. Those immune to sorrow are uncanny in their patience. They are unmoved by so much. My modulations, my poems? she will not touch. Her favorite team wins the Super Bowl year after year. My poetry cares more for her than her for me. But now I drink water. And live by the sea.
