Life Is A Deep Sleep

The Soft Contralto Notes Of A Woman's Voice Are Born In The Immediate Region Of The Heart.

Doubt, If You Will, The Being Who Loves You, Woman Or Dog, But Never Doubt Love Itself.

It Was One Of Those Somber Evenings When The Sighing Of The Wind Resembles The Moans Of A Dying Man; A Storm Was Brewing, And Between The Splashes Of Rain On The Windows There Was The Silence Of Death. All Nature Suffers In Such Moments; The Trees Writhe In Pain And Twist Their Heads; The Birds Of The Fields Cower Under The Bushes; The Streets Of Cities Are Deserted.

I Can't Help It, The Idea Of The Infinite Torments Me.

If Love Is A Play, This Play, As Old As The World, Fiasco Or Not, It Is, All In All, The Least Bad Thing That Has So Far Been Found. The Roles Are Trite, I Admit, But If The Play Had No Value The Whole Universe Wouldn’t Know It By Heart