/lit/ - Literature

Piano
BY D. H. LAWRENCE

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

Anne Hathaway is the only acceptable answer

I am extremely depressed. No woman will ever look at me the way Anne Hathaway (the most beautiful woman in the world) looks at the interviewer in pic related. I've taken to working out to try and alleviate my sorrows, but the other men at the gym are all faggots who have tried to pressure me into joining their homosexual revels. I have said no so far, but I fear that as my mental state worsens I may one day give in. This only fills me with more self-loathing.