It's Pointless To Cry. One Is Born

But Here's The Worst Part: The Trick To Life Lies In Hiding From Those We Hold Most Dear How Much They Mean To Is; If Not, We'd Lose Them.

In The Mental Disturbance And Effort Of Writing, What Sustains You Is The Certainty That On Every Page There Is Something Left Unsaid.

Not Believing In Anything Is Also A Religion .

Now That I've Seen What War Is, What Civil War Is, I Know That Everybody, If One Day It Should End, Ought To Ask Himself: "and What Shall We Make Of The Fallen? Why Are They Dead?" I Wouldn't Know What To Say. Not Now, At Any Rate. Nor Does It Seem To Me That The Others Know. Perhaps Only Dead Know, And Only For Them Is The War Really Over.

Perfect Behavior Is Born Of Complete Indifference. Perhaps This Is Why We Always Love Madly Someone Who Treats Us With Indifference.