Late Night with Whiskey and Extreme Fatigue

I'm listening to Melody Gardot and thinking about Peter Beard--the earlier version.  I don't know why.  LIfe, I guess, that is gone and can't be lived no matter how much whiskey we drink or weight we lose.  There was a time when we were glorious.  We hope.  But it was true.  The time is fleeting, but if you had it--oh, my.  It might have been a moment when you were in love, lying on a couch watching a movie.  As simple as that.  When the wine was perfect and the room agreed.  You were far away in a foreign country where everything was new or you were climbing a mountain with no one around.  There was sunshine, or there was whiskey and beer.  You can't explain it.  It is simply that you were there and it was perfect.  

Never try to compare the present to those heroic times.  No.  We were heroes then.  All of us. 

But not like Peter Beard.  We can wish. . . but no, we were never like that.