But our own selves are like pearls$$$ created by layer after layer of present laid over past until the original thing is completely hidden.

Show me a person who hasn't known any sorrow and I'll show you a superficial.

We get to choose who we let in to our weird little worlds.

The very angels themselves cannot persuade the wretched and blundering children on earth as can one human being broken on the wheels of living.

Many who have dedicated their life to love$$$ can tell us less about this subject than a child who lost his dog yesterday.

There is no drunkenness equal to that of remembering whispered words in the night.

Pleasure is the only thing one should live for$$$ nothing ages like happiness.

If we're always guided by other people's thoughts$$$ what's the point in having our own?

Is insincerity such a terrible thing? I think not. It is merely a method by which we can multiply our personalities.

Men always want to be a woman's first love - women like to be a man's last romance.