Some, like the storied
Ponce de Leon, sought a thing, the
literal Fountain of Youth, thirsty for
immortality.
I don't know whether my thirst could be sated, whether it is a literal thirst at all.
Sometimes, the madness in me, themusic in me, feels a figurative thirst, sating it in a keyboard improvisation, or in a lesson with one of my students, for the instants it lasts.
And if I were a romantic, I might find another.
Though not now.