Spring Is Like A Perhaps Hand

The Artist Is Not A Man Who Describes, But A Man Who Feels.

The Most Wasted Of All Days Is One Without Laughter.

Someones Married Their Everyones Laughed Their Cryings And Did Their Dance (sleep Wake Hope And Then) They Said Their Nevers They Slept Their Dream

All Which Isn't Singing Is Mere Talking... And All Talking's To Oneself Alone But The Very Song Of (as Mountains Feel And Lovers) Singing Is Silence.

May My Heart Always Be Open To Little Birds Who Are The Secrets Of Living