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When we mourn those who die young - those who have been robbed of time - we weep for lost joys. We weep for opportunities and pleasures we ourselves have never known. We feel sure that somehow that young body would have known the yearning delight for which we searched in vain all our lives. We believe that the untried soul, trapped inside its young prison, might have flown free and known the joy we still seek. We say that life is sweet, its satisfactions deep. All this we say, as we sleepwalk through our time and through years of days and nights. We let time cascade over us like a waterfall, believing it to be never ending. Yet each day that touches us, and every man in the world, is unique; irredeemable; over. And just another Monday. Ah, but those lost Mondays of our young dead friend! How much better they would have been! Years pass. Decades pass. And living has not been done…
