The Rest Of My Days I Spend

Is There A Mechanism Of Death, That So Mutilates Existence No One, Gets Over It Not Even The Dead?

I Will Find That Special Person Who Is Wrong For Me In Just The Right Way.

Second-hand Gloves Will Become Lovely Again, Their Memories Are What Give Them The Need For Other Hands. And The Desolation Of Lovers Is The Same: That Enormous Emptiness Carved Out Of Such Tiny Beings As We Are Asks To Be Filled; The Need For The New Love Is Faithfulness To The Old.

Sometimes It Is Necessary To Reteach A Thing Its Loveliness

The Bud Stands For All Things, Even For Those Things That Don't Flower