Like a French poem is life; being only perfect in structure when with >>
Sit in reverie and watch the changing color of the waves that break up >>
When a great man dies, for years the light he leaves behind him, lies >>
Remembrance of things past. >>
People have this obsession. They want you to be like you were in 1969. >>
Even while I protest the assembly-line production of our food, our son >>
A feeling of sadness and longing that is not akin to pain, and resembles sorrow only as the mist resembles the rain.