What We Desire Is Not To Possess

The Face Of The Night Will Be An Old Wound That Reopens Each Evening, Impassive And Living. The Distant Silence Will Ache Like A Soul, Mute, In The Dark. We'll Speak To The Night As It's Whispering Softly.

Perfect Behavior Is Born Of Complete Indifference. Perhaps This Is Why We Always Love Madly Someone Who Treats Us With Indifference.

You Don't Remember Days, You Remember Moments.

Maybe It's Better Like This, Better That Everything Should Go Up In A Blaze Of Dry Grass And That People Should Begin Again.

Every Luxury Must Be Paid For, And Everything Is A Luxury, Starting With Being In This World.