We Are Our Own Aptest Deceiver.

Man Errs As Long As He Strives.

Colors Are The Deeds/ And Sufferings Of Light.

Destiny Grants Us Our Wishes, But In Its Own Way, In Order To Give Us Something Beyond Our Wishes.

At Bottom, No Real Object Is Unpoetical, If The Poet Knows How To Use It Properly.

Come My Little One, And Give Me Your Hand.