There's a gentle sigh which descends like billowing silk upon the soul that accepts its coming death. It's a gentle pocket of air in the turbulence of everyday life... the silk settles around you as if it has been drifting towards the earth forever and has finally found it's target. The flag of defeat has been mercifully dropped and, in this action, the loss is not so bad. Defeat itself is defeated by the embrace of defeat, and death is swallowed up in victory.

Love is an action you must repeat ceaselessly.

Perhaps there are just some things you leave behind when you choose a new life.

If you listen to the wind very carefully, you'll be able to hear me whisper my love for you.

You'll swoop from incredible highs when you're just glad to be alive, to those lows when you wish you were dead. And just when you start thinking that you've accepted who you are, that changes, too. Because who you are is not permanent

All history is just one man trying to take something away from another man, and usually it doesn't really belong to either of them.

Love is as strong as death, as hard as hell.