Upon feeling remorse for some mis-deed or oversight, I borrow from Mark Twain in saying, "I realize where I have made this mistake, and beg your forgiveness. I must also beg you to not mention it where my parents may hear of it because they are both old and feeble and such a wanton breach of the hallowed conventionalities of our Christian civilization might all too rudely sunder the frail bridge which hangs darkling between the pale and evanescent present and the solemn great deeps of the eternities. Now, will you pour me a scotch?".
The response comes, "Your sentiments do you honor, but if you will allow me to say it, metaphor is not your best hold. Please don't break this glass, it was hand blown in Mexico".
Generally speaking, weather permitting, the soft afterglow of the day hangs around with its comforting sigh that there is still hope, promising another tomorrow and another chance.
Hours like these are the happiest of all.
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