It Is Not Necessarily Poverty Of Spirit

Here's To Alcohol, The Rose Colored Glasses Of Life.

Find The Key Emotion; This May Be All You Need Know To Find Your Short Story.

He Wanted To Care, And He Could Not Care. For He Had Gone Away And He Could Never Go Back Anymore. The Gates Were Closed, The Sun Was Down, And There Was No Beauty Left But The Gray Beauty Of Steel That Withstands All Time. Even The Grief He Could Have Borne Was Left Behind In The Country Of Youth, Of Illusion, Of The Richness Of Life, Where His Winter Dreams Had Flourished.

In His Blue Gardens Men And Girls Came And Went Like Moths Among The Whisperings And The Champagne And The Stars.

You're A Slave, A Bound Helpless Slave To One Thing In The World, Your Imagination.