How many women does one need to sing the scale of love all the way up and down?
Germany is now a field of cadavers, soon she will be a paradise.
Love is a peculiar thing.
The breath of an aristocrat is the death rattle of freedom.
The life of the wealthy is one long Sunday.
The stars are scattered all over the sky like shimmering tears, there must be great pain in the eye from which they trickled.