The Grandeur Of The Dooms We Have

I Wish You Could Invent Some Means To Make Me At All Happy Without You. Every Hour I Am More And More Concentrated In You; Everything Else Tastes Like Chaff In My Mouth.

But Were There Ever Any Writhed Not At Passed Joy?

When It Is Moving On Luxurious Wings, The Soul Is Lost In Pleasant Smotherings.

Land And Sea, Weakness And Decline Are Great Separators, But Death Is The Great Divorcer For Ever.

So Let Me Be Thy Choir, And Make A Moan Upon The Midnight Hours.