Loving a married woman is hell. You look into her eyes, the cup is there, but she’s falling, into her own life, which erects itself in front of you, in spite. You search for the terms on which to talk to her, seeing, finding beauty, comfort and thrill, but no one will be on your side. Then you take a walk over the river, on the bridge. There’s still nothing there. And you wonder why anyone philosophizes, or studies. So much gauging of the rear view, what’s been rendered bathetic by astronomy. And you see astronomy in her eyes, she’s struggling to help you, because she likes you alright, all right, like you’re a mangy cur lining the curb and just looking understandable, so understandable.
You want to give her a dress to wear, or a shirt, with flowers on it, to make her feel brand new, so maybe she’ll look up at the sky and forget what day it is, forget all the offensive things with which her consciousness has been inundated, and all the trappings of worry. Baby, I got it. But I don’t want to say it. 
New apartment complexes pop up everywhere, new people. We study virtue, we attempt kindness toward these new people, and receive heartbreaking, inexorable spite, sneering and disdain. Somehow we turn to the next chapter, and cross the street, noticing the big ugly white thing made of concrete protruding into the river. There, just there. Like those new apartment complexes, and all those new people. Wearing drab clothing, clothing that’s immaterial. You just want to stop time, and fix them. Show them a new way, a new rhythm, make them happy. Sequester them in a serene landscape of permanent affixation on the celestial and transcendent. Baby, I got it.