Love is a peculiar thing.
The breath of an aristocrat is the death rattle of freedom.
The statue of Freedom has not been cast yet, the furnace is hot, we can all still burn our fingers.
Dying people often become childish.
Only one thing abides: an infinite beauty that passes from form to form, eternally changed and revealed afresh.
The stars are scattered all over the sky like shimmering tears, there must be great pain in the eye from which they trickled.