Suffering Of Sentient Beings Is Like Decay;

You Reach Deep Down And Bring Up What Feels Absolutely Authentic To You As You Move Along With The Book, But You Don't Know Everything About It. You Can't.

God, What Is It Like To Be You And Hear All Those People All The Time Everywhere, Begging, Imploring, Calling Out For Anything And Anyone?

How Can So Much Beauty Hide Such A Bruised And Steely Heart, And Why Must I Love Him, Why Must I Lean In My Weariness Upon His Irresistible Yet Indomitable Strength? Is He Not The Wizend Funeral Spirit Of A Dead Man In A Child's Clothes?

Cities Have Distinct Personalities. It's A Matter Of Knowing It.

Oh To Have You With Me, To Have You Here, Not To Be Alone, But To Be With You, My Beauty, You Of All Souls! You.