I Realize That, While Often Happy And

Life Is What We Make Of It. Travel Is The Traveler. What We See Isn't What We See But What We Are.

I’m Losing My Taste For Everything, Including Even My Taste For Finding Everything Tasteless.

The Chill Of What I Won't Feel Gnaws At My Present Heart.

The Human Soul Is An Abyss

My Dreams Are A Stupid Refuge, Like An Umbrella Against A Thunderbolt.