Everyday conversations sound far better in French (than in English).

My subway ride from work was brightened by the interesting conversation between a young French-speaking pregnant mother and her (I’m guessing) three year old son. The child seemed tired from a long day, displeased at being surrounding by towering adults who hardly noticed him standing and was generally disgruntled (he found it unkind of people to push into the crowded, already-full, subway car and cram it beyond capacity). He is hardly to blame for disliking the rush hour commute. When he had the opportunity to sit, he scowled in response to my smile. His mother proceeded to inform him that his action was ill-mannered and inconsiderate and their conversation veered off. I found it so pleasant to listen to her calm instructive voice as he occasionally replied or expressed confusion.

Il faisait beau...

Looking intently at my hair, gathered high on my head in a firm twist of locks, my father said:

“Have you considered that you may have a hidden talent for cake decorating?”

She wanted to draw; to draw out long, thick, thin, blue madness from her brush, pen, vein – to escape and hide in the desert inhaling grains of sand until it filled her whole. She wanted to bathe in thick viscous ink colouring herself blue. She wanted her naked blue body to reflect her sombre disenchanted mood.

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

William Butler Yeats

The relevance astounds.