The Garden Where You Sit Has Never

Money Has No Religion Except Itself.

The Garden Where You Sit Has Never A Need Of Flowers, For You Are The Blossoms And Only A Fool Or The Blind Would Fail To Know It

We Have Roots That Grow Towards Each Other Underground. And When All The Pretty Blossom Has Fallen From Our Branches We Find That We Are One Tree And Not Two.

Love Is A Kind Of Dementia With Very Precise And Oft-repeated Clinical Symptoms.

History Is The Propaganda Of The Victors.