Two Things Make A Story. The Net

Only A Burning Patience Will Lead To The Attainment Of A Splendid Happiness.

I No Longer Love Her, That's Certain, But Maybe I Love Her. Love Is So Short, Forgetting Is So Long.

He Who Has Nothing—it Has Been Said Many Times—has Nothing To Lose But His Chains.

I Don't Know Who It Is Who Lives Or Dies, Who Rests Or Wakes, But It Is Your Heart That Distributes All The Graces Of The Daybreak In My Breast.

As Slippery As Smooth Grapes, Words Exploding In The Light Like Dormant Seeds Waiting In The Vaults Of Vocabulary, Alive Again, And Giving Life: Once Again The Heart Distills Them.