"I simply want to reach a level where I will never cease to make progress...so that, even on the bad evenings, I may never be bad enough to despair."

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Love is most nearly itself When here and now cease to matter. Old men ought to be explorers Here or there does not matter We must be still and still moving Into another intensity For a further union, a deeper communion Through the dark cold and the empty desolation, The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters Of the petrel and the porpoise.

— T. S. Eliot