Life did not intend to make us perfect. Whoever is perfect belongs in a museum.
Sweet dreams though the guns are booming.
Our thoughts are clay, they are moulded with the changes of the days;--when we are resting they are good; under fire, they are dead. Fields of craters within and without.
The coffin, it shall protect me, though Death himself lies in it
Every little bean must be heard as well as seen!
Sometimes I used to think that one day i should wake up, and all that had been would be over. forgotten, sunk, drowned. Nothing was sure - not even memory.