The hands of fate keep time on a heart-shaped clock.

RELIGION OR COUNTRYOur allegiance may determine the fate of others

People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist.

to be a poet meansto live with a permanent wound forever susceptibleto either the shade of the skyor someone's eyes.

When a writer falls in love with you - their very soul bursts open like a supernova brightly lighting up everything in its way.They will write spells on your skin and carve your name onto their bones and make you theirs.Their love bleeds through their fingers in the form of words hastily written on paper while their heart jumps inside their chest, unable to contain such impossible amount of feelings rushing over one another getting tangled, causing pain and joy and tears of sorrow and happiness all at the same time.The universe will fall from their parted lips when they say your name and whisper how much they love you. They will turn you into a priceless sculpture - carve you into a monument and make love to you - while making you their home, their sun, their moon, their stars, their whole world gathered into one small corporeal being made out of stars and love and infinity.When a writer falls in love with you they become a new separate universe quietly created by your words, brought to life by your touch, burning brightly as long as you whisper their name with all the love that you have inside you.

All things, even the deepest sorrow or the most profound happiness are all temporary. Hope is fuel for the soul, without hope, forward motion ceases.