As much as I’d love to believe the sun shines for us and the moon personifies beauty, I know we’re deluded. A star that burns and a chunk of rock that steals light can’t inspire. Romanticism, that’s what literature has become. What is life but a celebration of perpetual vanity?
There are some roads I'd better not take There are some places I'd better not dwell There are some tears I dare not shed There are smiles I'd rather not show There is a part of me That I'd never let live