That was when the ones who smiled Were the dead, glad to be at rest.

Real tenderness can't be confused, It's quiet and can't be heard.

As the future ripens in the past, so the past rots in the future -- a terrible festival of dead leaves.

There is a sacred, secret line in loving which attraction and even passion cannot cross.

My shadow serves as the friend I crave

Today I have so much to do: I must kill memory once and for all, I must turn my soul to stone, I must learn to live again. Unless ... Summer's ardent rustling is like a festival outside my window.

Call me a sinner, Mock me maliciously: I was your insomnia, I was your grief.