We spend our life, it's ours, trying to bring together in the same instant a ray of sunshine and a free bench

My mistakes are my life.

They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.

Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards, I take the air there willingly, perhaps more willingly than elsewhere, when take the air I must.

The tears stream down my cheeks from my unblinking eyes. What makes me weep so? There is nothing saddening here. Perhaps it is liquefied brain.

As it is with the love of the body, so with the friendship of the mind, the full is only reached by admittance to the most retired places.

What do we do now, now that we are happy?