A new generation is born and rises up in the shadow of its elders. As youth eclipses the aged they, like the petals of a withered bloom now relegated to the shadows, will return to the earth from which they grew.
It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment? For the moment passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone; life itself is gone. That is where the writer scores over his fellows: he catches the changes of his mind on the hop. ~Vita Sackville-West