Happiness May Have But One Night, As

Memory Is What Makes Us Young Or Old.

The Fumes Of Wine Fermented In My Head; It Was One Of Those Moments Of Intoxication When All That Ones Sees And Hears, Speaks To One Of The Adored.... One Would Willingly Embrace All Who Smile, And One Feels That He Is Brother Of All Who Live.

There Is No Worse Sorrow Than Remembering Happiness In The Day Of Sorrow.

Experience Is The Name Men Give To Their Follies Or Their Sorrows.

Romanticism Is The Abuse Of Adjectives