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I still stag­ger and fall. Of course I have that, it hap­pens to me all the time, you just have to get very care­ful about it, because it’s inap­pro­pri­ate for an elderly chap to reg­is­ter authen­ti­cally his feel­ings, you know, because they really could be inter­preted, so you really have to get quite covert as you get older or you have to find some avun­cu­lar way of respond­ing, but still, you just, really are just, you’re wounded, you stag­ger, and you fall.

—Leonard Cohen at 72

In 50 years, will I look at love with the same starry-eyed mys­ti­cism as I do now?

Will I be sat­is­fied, hav­ing loved enough, requited and not?

In my dotage, will I be proud to say that I was adored once, too?

When my friends are gone and my hair is grey, and I ache in the places where I used to play, will I still stagger?

Will I still fall?