People Are Not Born Bastards. They Have

Do Not Ask The Definition Of A Friend. He/she Is That One Without Whose Company Death And Dying Set In Earlier And Living Is Made More Pleasurable.

We Come Into The World Alone. We Go Away The Same. We're Meant To Spend The Interlude Between In Closeness Or So We Tell Ourselves. But It's A Long Way From The Morning To The Evening.

The Journey Back Is Always Longer Than The Forward Run.

I Cannot Speculate On What Our Cluttered Mind Will Save- Sleepy Sundays, Or A Nosebleed After Love. I Know Only The Dying Heart Needs The Nourishment Of Memory To Live Beyond Too Many Winters.

Watch The Indolent Butterfly Playing On The Tall Flower In The Yard And Think About The Sun Going Down. It Always Does You Know.