The wisest are the most annoyed at the loss of time.
A rapid bolt will rend the clouds apart, and every single White be seared by wounds. I tell you this. I want it all to hurt.
Love insists the loved loves back
Consider the sea's listless chime: Time's self it is, made audible.
Still desiring, we live without hope.
Reason flies When following the senses, on clipped wings.