Don't Forget Who You Are And Where

Wine Gave A Sort Of Gallantry To Their Own Failure.

Blessed Are The Dead That The Rain Falls On.

Writing Is Eternal, For Therein The Dead Heart Liveth, The Clay-cold Tongue Is Eloquent, And The Quick Eye Of The Reader Is Cleared By The Reed Of The Scribe. As A Fossil In The Rock, Or A Coin In The Mortar Of A Ruin, So The Symbolled Thoughts Tell Of A Departed Soul: The Plastic Hand Hath Its Witness In A Statue, And Exactitude Of Vision In A Picture, And So, The Mind, That Was Among Us, In Its Writings Is Embalmed.

All I Think Of Ever Is That I Love You.

Switzerland Is A Country Where Very Few Things Begin, But Many Things End.