Love Is A Peculiar Thing.

The Statue Of Freedom Has Not Been Cast Yet, The Furnace Is Hot, We Can All Still Burn Our Fingers.

We Are Always On Stage, Even When We Are Stabbed In Earnest At The End.

Whoever Finishes A Revolution Only Halfway, Digs His Own Grave.

Only One Thing Abides: An Infinite Beauty That Passes From Form To Form, Eternally Changed And Revealed Afresh.

The Breath Of An Aristocrat Is The Death Rattle Of Freedom.