With constancy receive; the bitter and bounteous, is as needs.
To be escaped, or seized?
Would he sloth with present wit or through the arcs of novel ages, chase bewilderment?
Does he alight directly and soft or by rough practicality?
You can tell much about a man by his travels.
There was a time, when I allowed feeling to guide my actions in life. And that really is all that I can say about that time.
And just like that it lifted from his soul and dispersed into nothing. Where heartache goes can no one tell, but in him was restored that tried and triumphant vitality I’d so loved him for. And that he was honest with his dismay, was his strength and warmth. Realising that he could have passed a lifetime in her stare but ultimately they were terribly needing to go different ways but too scared to go alone and not entirely knowing yet who alone actually was. Holding on, not each other.
O daybreak, that I am ever with fresh gladness seen, and not honoured to evenings conviction, that today I do not mean.
Alexandra in Amérique du Sud
The words of Phen Weston
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