Once, walking down Lexington Avenue in the snow, I caught an image of myself in a glass. My hair, bathed in snow flakes, had become a marvelous spread of white. I paused to acknowledge this older version of me, looking back at this young, foolish youth.
May nothing bring us under until we are old.
But whether 40 or 50, what does it matter? Darling for you there's only love.