Nurse the wounds, drink some coffee.

Move on.

T.S Eliot and Ezra Pound

Holy schmokes. I believe they are best friends as of now. Who says a bumping heart dictates friendship?

Nonetheless Eliot's dusty bones describes exactly how I feel about friendship and how rare it is to find it in Portrait of a Lady.

“You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends,
And how, how rare and strange it is, to find	20
In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends,
[For indeed I do not love it … you knew? you are not blind!
How keen you are!]
To find a friend who has these qualities,
Who has, and gives	25
Those qualities upon which friendship lives.
How much it means that I say this to you—
Without these friendships—life, what cauchemar!”

Eliot and Pound posts in the works for the future.