The Book of Wu Gratitude for Living

Black Butterfly: "There was once a great storyteller who wouldn't write unless he was in love," spoke a familiar voice from beyond the grove. "Here we go again," mused the sad poet. He watched helplessly as all his hopes for a tranquil day came tumbling down all at once. "What became of this great storyteller?" asked the poet reluctantly. "He died with a broken heart. They all do-even the great ones. it was a misty morning in the dead of winter when death came and swooped him up as swiftly as a Great Owl would a Chipmunk," Mu reached up and plucked a mango from a drooping branch. "Did he ever fall in love?" the poet asked with a genuine show of interest. "He did. But never long enough to finish anything-love is peculiar that way," she bit into the mango, "Mmm...juicy." She took another bite, "Mmm...luscious." And another, "Mmm...perfect." Now, what was i rambling on about?... Oh! That's right! Sadly, the only ending the poor storyteller ever knew was his own death." "How horrible! Why are you telling me this?!" the poet snapped. "Because," Mu was no longer grinning that playful grin she always grinned, "the world could've been a bit more beautiful if the sorry fool would've just asked himself for love instead, don't you think?..." but before the poet could answer, Mu disappeared into the grove of mango trees. The poet plucked a mango, sat down, and pondered the old crone's words.