Two men were sitting at a table.

"I had a friend once," the first stated. "His name was Harold. We called him Harry, of course."

"I remember loving," the other sighed. "She was a poet. Very good, but never recognized. Until I came along. We talked about her work till the sun rose. I don't remember the last time I saw her, or what she looked like. I don't even remember her name. Just the idea, the idea of love, survives somewhere in my conscience. Maybe I'd be better off forgetting that as well."

The other man scratched his bald head, and laughed. "Just consider yourself lucky," was all he could say without revealing his sadness.