"What is the worth of a thousand years, if you cannot enjoy it like your first ten dozen springs?" The elf's v
"What is the worth of a thousand years, if you cannot enjoy it like your first ten dozen springs?" The elf's voice sounds unusually vehement. "Everyone considers elves ever-young, but our 'youthfulness' is but a mask, a threadbare ritual gown. What lies underneath? The dust of years, and jaded repetition. With each year the dust grows thicker, and erstwhile joys cease to excite, and cloy, as a dish you've tasted a thousand times!"
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