the heart asks pleasure first

So, turns out the name of one of my favourite tunes from Jane Campion's "The Piano" comes from Emily Dickinson.

The heart asks pleasure first,
And then, excuse from pain;
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering;

And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.

And I immediately think - "oh but in that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause."

But it mustn't. ( or maybe it must. depends on how you look at 'pause' I guess.)

Do yourself a favour. Make a list of the things you really, really care about, will ya? And damn it, live by it.

For the root of all human resentment is our creaturely finitude.

I am rather tired of fluttering in all ways and flying in none.