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.

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