Failure To Love Is Almost Like Murder.

And Why Is It, Thought Lara, That My Fate Is To See Everything And Take It All So Much To Heart?

He Was A Natural, And In The Russian Way, Tragically Above These Banalities.

February. Get Ink, Shed Tears. Write Of It, Sob Your Heart Out, Sing, While Torrential Slush That Roars Burns In The Blackness Of The Spring. Go Hire A Buggy. For Six Grivnas, Race Through The Noice Of Bells And Wheels To Where The Ink And All You Grieving Are Muffled When The Rainshower Falls. To Where, Like Pears Burnt Black As Charcoal, A Myriad Rooks, Plucked From The Trees, Fall Down Into The Puddles, Hurl Dry Sadness Deep Into The Eyes. Below, The Wet Black Earth Shows Through, With Sudden Cries The Wind Is Pitted, The More Haphazard, The More True The Poetry That Sobs Its Heart Out.

... The Unarmed Power Of Naked Truth.

What You Don't Understand Is That It Is Possible To Be An Atheist, It Is Possible Not To Know If God Exists Or Why He Should, And Yet To Believe That Man Does Not Live In A State Of Nature But In History, And That History As We Know It Now Began With Christ, It Was Founded By Him On The Gospels.