We Had The Experience, But We Missed

Where There Is No Temple There Shall Be No Homes.

To Arrive Where You Are, To Get From Where You Are Not / You Must Go By A Way Wherein There Is No Ecstasy.

The Nightingales Are Singing Near The Convent Of The Sacred Heart, And Sang Within The Bloody Wood When Agamemnon Cried Aloud, And Let Their Liquid Siftings Fall To Stain The Stiff Dishonored Shroud.

The Journey, Not The Destination Matters.

He Who Was Living Is Now Dead We Who Were Living Are Now Dying With A Little Patience.