The completion my soul never knew it was in want of, until it was bereft.
F all things that could be, can be, have yet to be-today, this, you; make them all seem so less worthy of contemplation…
The world turns as waves roll, forward with passion, ebbing in regret. Yet that hope bouys on, upheld on every foamy crest. The trick then, dear children, is to be the foamiest of foams that cover the sands.
There is a very curious tale to share, about the things we did and the name we bear.