Now I Am An Outcast. I Loathe

I May Die Of Earthly Love, Or Of Devotion.

I Could Never Throw Love Out Of The Window.

A Thousand Dreams Within Me Softly Burn: From Time To Time My Heart Is Like Some Oak Whose Blood Runs Golden Where A Branch Is Torn.

What Am I Doing Here?

True Alchemy Lies In This Formula: ‘your Memory And Your Senses Are But The Nourishment Of Your Creative Impulse’.