Birthdays come and go; so too governments, editors, years, jobs, parents, friends, mobile phones, contact lenses, teeth, hair, hopes, houses, nightmares and dreams. Everything, it seems, is susceptible to change, to enquiry, to reason and doubt, to assessment and judgement and conditions which may or may not apply, now, then, or at some future stage. All is white noise:
“...this is not the editor happy birthday bro why hang up the phone? unfortunately your novel is throwing out this throw man sentenced for sex act on horse at told her just let it go Mubarak sacks cabinet your ideas believed to be 18 years old has been stabbed to death near a railway station in south sorry I couldn’t Torres hands in thank you for your participation this is where we said goodbye I sat on this bench and watched her face in the back of the happy birthday to you, happy bir-“
“And the love that loves the love that loves the love that loves the love that loves to love the love that loves to love the love that loves..."
As Van knows (5 minutes and 11 seconds in), and Larkin too:
What will survive of us is love.