My Love Is Selfish. I Cannot Breathe

A Man Should Have The Fine Point Of His Soul Taken Off To Become Fit For This World.

We Have Woven A Web, You And I, Attached To This World But A Separate World Of Our Own Invention.

This Grave Contains All That Was Mortal Of A Young English Poet Who On His Death Bed In The Bitterness Of His Heart At The Malicious Power Of His Enemies Desired These Words To Be Engraved On His Tomb Stone "here Lies One Whose Name Was Writ In Water."

How Sad It Is When A Luxurious Imagination Is Obliged In Self Defense To Deaden Its Delicacy In Vulgarity, And Riot In Things Attainable That It May Not Have Leisure To Go Mad After Things That Are Not.

Season Of Mists And Mellow Fruitfulness, Close Bosom-friend Of The Maturing Sun.