Laughter is the language of the soul.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
Winter dies into the spring, to be born again in the autumn.
We’re here, and then we’re gone, and it’s not about the time we’re here, but what we do with the time.
Some things you can never leave behind. They don’t belong to the past. They belong to you.
All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.
Edgar Allan Poe
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