There Is In Every Miracle A Silent

Kind Pity Chokes My Spleen.

For I Am Every Dead Thing In Whom Love Wrought New Alchemy For His Art Did Express A Quintessence Even From Nothingness, From Dull Privations, And Lean Emptiness He Ruined Me, And I Am Re-begot Of Absence, Darkness, Death; Things Which Are Not.

We Give Each Other A Smile With A Future In It

One Short Sleep Past, We Wake Eternally, And Death Shall Be No More; Death, Thou Shalt Die.

Enjoyment Always Has A Spoiling, Otherwise It Cannot Be So.