It's All A Great Mystery...look Up At

Each Man Carries Within Him The Soul Of A Poet Who Died Young.

War Is Not An Adventure. It Is A Disease. It Is Like Typhus.

And At Night I Love To Listen To The Stars. It Is Like Five Hundred Million Little Bells.

We Are Prudent People. We Are Afraid To Let Go Of Our Petty Reality In Order To Grasp At A Great Shadow.

Of Course, I Love You,' The Flower Said To Him. 'if You Were Not Aware Of It, It Was My Fault.