The man who believes that the secrets of the world are forever hidden lives in mystery and fear. Superstition will drag him down.

Then there's amortization$$$<br>the deadliest of all;<br>amortization<br>of the heart and soul.

Soon$$$ sampled by everyone$$$<br>Stale and pallid$$$<br>I'll come out<br>And mumble toothlessly<br>That today I'm<br>Remarkably candid.

Men$$$ crumpled like bed-sheets in hospitals$$$<br>And women$$$ battered like overused proverbs.

Love<br>for us<br>is no paradise of arbors to us<br>love tells us$$$ humming$$$<br>that the stalled motor<br>of the heart<br>has started to work<br>again.

Patriotism is a kind of religion; it is the egg from which wars are hatched.

Whoever wishes to devote himself to painting should begin by cutting out his own tongue.

That there is a Devil$$$ is a thing doubted by none but such as are under the influences of the Devil.

My love is of a birth as rare<br/>As 'tis$$$ for object$$$ strange and high;<br/>It was begotten by <br/>Despair Upon Impossibility.

I've never forgotten him. Dare I say I miss him? I do. I miss him. I still see him in my dreams. They are nightmares mostly$$$ but nightmares tinged with love. Such is the strangeness of the human heart. I still cannot understand how he could abandon me so unceremoniously$$$ without any sort of goodbye$$$ without looking back even once. The pain is like an axe that chops my heart.