Strange, The Desire For Certain Pleasures Is

He Who Passes Not His Days In The Realm Of Dreams Is The Slave Of The Days.

Beauty Is Eternity Gazing At Itself In A Mirror.

The Optimist Sees The Rose And Not Its Thorns; The Pessimist Stares At The Thorns, Oblivious To The Rose.

Believing Is A Fine Thing, But Placing Those Beliefs Into Execution Is A Test Of Strength. Many Are Those Who Talk Like The Roar Of The Sea, Gut Their Lives Are Shallow And Stagnant, Like The Rotting Marshes. Many Are Those Who Lift Their Heads Above The Mountain Tops, But Their Spirits Remain Dormant In The Obscurity Of The Caverns.

The "i" In Me, My Friend, Dwells In The House Of Silence, And Therein It Shall Remain For Ever More, Unperceived, Unapproachable.