It was the best of times,
it was the worst of times;
we were depressed at times,
and fit to burst at times —
We were obsessed at times
and too rehearsed at times,
and we thought our misdemeanors
      were big-time crimes;

We would fall in love
      like there was no tomorrow —
            then tomorrow came,
                  and we would have to borrow
someone else’s sorrow,
      someone else’s passion —
            what the hell, sincerity
                  was not in fashion,
and we misbehaved; but my regrets are… none:
      We were miserable, and we were having fun.

It was the best of times,
it was the worst of times:
if we were blessed at times,
then we were cursed at times,
but if the rest of times
were like the first of times,
would our lives have gone
      along different lines?

Although I thirst at times
      for how we used to be,
            when I’m myself again
                  I know the joke’s on me,
for we’re the end result
      of what we used to do
            and we’re the grown-up children
                  of the kids we knew.
And though I guess I’m happy, my regrets are… one:
      We left unfinished what we shouldn’t have done.

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