Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not.
Michael Robartes remembers forgotten beauty and, when his arms wrap her round, he presses in his arms the loveliness which has long faded from the world. Not this. Not at all. I desire to press in my arms the loveliness which has not yet come into the world.
Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand.
Lord, heap miseries upon us yet entwine our arts with laughters low.
The light music of whiskey falling into glasses made an agreeable interlude.
All fiction is autobiographical fantasy.