Life Is Too Fleet For Onomatopoeia.

Why Break The Heart That Never Beat From Love?

I Am Too Rich Already, For My Eyes Mint Gold, While My Heart Cries.

For Death Is Life. It Is Only Living That Is Lifeless.

There Are Times When The Air That Floats Between Mortals Becomes, In Its Stillness And Silence, As Cruel As The Edge Of A Scythe.

I Was Brooding, Boy. Than Which There Is No Richer Pastime. It Muffles One With Rotting Plumes. It Gives Forth Sullen Music. It Is The Smell Of Home.