Labor is blossoming or dancing where / The body is not bruised to pleasure soul, / Nor beauty born out of its own despair, / Nor bleary-eyed wisdom our to midnight oil. / O chestnut tree, great rooted blossomer, / Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole? / O body swayed to the music, O brightening glance, / How can we know the dancer from the dance? (Yeats, "Among the schoolchildren")

Midnight / The Deep South / Ecstasy, It's finally spring down here on the Chattahoochee-- the azaleas are in bloom, and everyone is dying of cancer.

--- What I said earlier was wrong: We don't have to do anything with our lives. As long as you are alive, there's an end to it. (Paul, last page)

Go out dancing tonight, my dear, and go home with someone, and if the love doesn't last beyond the morning, then know I love you.