The windy satisfaction of the tongue.
How vain, without the merit, is the name.
I discovered a meal between breakfast and brunch.
Generations of men are like the leaves. In winter, winds blow them down to earth, but then, when spring season comes again, the budding wood grows more. And so with men: one generation grows, another dies away.
The journey is the thing.
Fate is the same for the man who holds back, the same if he fights hard. We are all held in a single honor, the brave with the weaklings. A man dies still if he has done nothing, as the one who has done much.