Collecting the Mail

Don't berate me, I am only trying to maintain some domestic order for you. Besides, I am once again neglecting you and feel convicted to at least let you know I passed by the neighbourhood, even if quality time is not forthcoming!
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Look, the mail box is, well, in the mail! Some things are worth worrying over and some are not. Anyway - current project - 2000 words on broadcast evangelism. Yes I know it sounds like fun, but really it is one of those things that you would love to do justice to then realise that 2000 words and other time commitments will not allow you to do any more than get a 'tick in the box'.
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I know that my study should be a priority, but balance is needed. I need to devote time to my best friend. I am hopeful of a romantic interest developing, if only she would see past the domestic civility within which we exist. The indicators are there, I just need to let her know that she touches my heart as well as the synapse of my extremities. Failure will result in a Stygian mood from which extraction will require a major operation aimed at regime change!
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Why do life verses have to come from the Bible, good source but not always what is on the mind or heart - fear of excommunication starting to rise like a fundamentalist bile in my spiritual throat. Today's verse (hopeful of achieving afore mentioned intent):

To His Coy Mistress

Had we but World enough, and Time,
This coyness Lady were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long Loves Day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges side
Should'st Rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood:
And you should if you please refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than Empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should grow to praise
Thine Eyes, and on thy Forehead Gaze.
Two hundred to adore each Breast:
But thirty thousand to the rest.
An Age at least to every part,
And the last Age should show your Heart.
For Lady you deserve this State;
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I alwaies hear
Times winged Charriot hurrying near:
And yonder all before us lye
Desarts of vast Eternity.
Thy Beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble Vault, shall sound
My echoing Song: then Worms shall try
That long preserv'd Virginity:
And you quaint Honour turns to dust;
And into ashes all my Lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hew
Sits on thy skin like morning [dew],
And while thy willing Soul transpires
At every pore with instant Fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our Time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapt pow'r.
Let us roll all our Strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one Ball:
And tear our Pleasures with rough strife,
Through the Iron gates of Life.
Thus, though we cannot make our Sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Andrew Marvel (1621-1678)