As falls the dew on quenchless sands, blood only serves to wash ambiti >>
The way to be immortal (I mean not to die at all) is to have me for yo >>
Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, and yet a third of >>
The key to every man is his thought. Sturdy and defying though he look >>
Carve every word before you let it fall. >>
Thought is the labor of the intellect, reverie is its pleasure. >>
For in itself a thought, a slumbering thought, is capable of years, and curdles a long life into one hour.