I don't recommend English or any other language, not as a first or second form of communication, but more as form of torture. I'm 50 years old. It's my first language, and still I stumble. Try tap dancing instead. You may stub a toe, but it's less painful than dislodging it from the mouth.
I once thought the forlorn sentence, "Never the twain shall meet," meant that I would never have the pleasure of Samuel Clemens over a light dinner with bland chicken and early June peas. I'd never be able to see if he'd chuckle when I told him his name reminded me of lemons and clementines.
(Samuel Clemens is the name of an American Author of ordinary genius in the opinion of anyone I'd be of a mind to listen to. His pen name was, Mark Twain. I, being a fan of Albert Einstein, and Giorgio Tsoukalous, struggle to know if it was his mind or his hair that so enchanted, but this is no time for romantic hair ideas.Besides, I loved this guy too.)
Sad as that seemed, and no doubt we'd have gotten along brilliantly, I thought surely there were more tragic events to reference.Turns out, I was only cliched. That alone is reason to cry, and I'd tell it was from Kipling's, "East Meets West," but that would deter and entirely siphon the humor out of this otherwise perfectly melancholy quip. I can't help but wonder what Mark Twain would say about that. I sigh at memories of curling dancers from a pipe, an overgrown mustache, and white tendrils be-smoked with wisdom, and a healthy dose of smart aleck -that will never occur.
In some twist of heavenly wisdom, I arrived entirely too *later for the company of Mr. Clemens, in a world that's in an awful hurry to go nowhere of any benefit that I can tell. And I have a path too, dreaming of Old Masters and maybe card sharks, and while I'd like to have known you, times are moving on, this chair's beginning to creak or maybe it was my knees. It's getting *laterer, and never the Twain shall meet.