I Suspect Victims; They Win In The

Good-byes Breed A Sort Of Distaste For Whomever You Say Good-bye To; This Hurts, You Feel, This Must Not Happen Again.

We Desert Those Who Desert Us; We Cannot Afford To Suffer; We Must Live How We Can.

Nobody Speaks The Truth When There's Something They Must Have.

One Can Live In The Shadow Of An Idea Without Grasping It.

Memory Must Be Patchy; What Is More Alarming Is Its Face-savingness. Something In One Shrinks From Catching It Out - Unique To Oneself, One's Own, One's Claim To Identity, It Implicates One's Identity In Its Fibbing.