Really unreal world, will you perhaps do the breathing for me while I am away?
love is the every only god
That which we die for lives as wholly as that which we live for dies.
And now you are and I am and we're a mystery which will never happen again.
If at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you've written one line of one poem, you'll be very lucky indeed.
Next to of course god America i / love you land of the pilgrims and so forth oh