*sigh* Pain, pleasure, and muses

Has anyone else ever desperately wished that Immortals (or vampires) were real? Anyone else out there ever wanted the chance to meet one, be friends with one, somehow touch all those centuries that they knew and loved? Anyone else out there ever wanted to be able to ask one that long-lived if pain ever truly heals over? If the white-hot pleasure you found in something forbidden will ever quit arching through your veins like lightening, and if you'll ever quit wanting it again?

Anyone ever wanted to believe that somewhere out there, today, there's someone that heard Shakepeare read his own plays, heard Bach or Beethoven play their own pieces, heard Chaucer read his Caunturbury tales in dim, smoky light? Anyone else ever looked out at our world and our expedience and wished desperately that there was someone out there who thought in the language, the measured speech, the pure impassioned flow of the Declaration of Independance just so it wouldn't be true that "People don't talk like that anymore"?

Anyone else ever been criticized with those same words, when you were speaking from your heart?

Conversely, anyone out there ever feel like you've seen this all, done this all, before? That this is just another short piece of an undending cycle and wished that you knew more about that last life, more than the tiny bits and pieces that haunt your dreams and a few of your waking moments?

Comments, retorts, appeals for sanity? Leave them in the little box, please?

(sorry about the melancholy, i'm reading Highlander stories, and they always make me sad)