The only mistake about love is that life can’t remember it and the heart won’t find it.

So I call on truth itself,for it is knownand yet does not write;

To to remembered by a heart is the greatest honour - yet the greatest tragedy.

I am not more than a second full of love in a world who seeks the truth. Not more than a moment, who carries even the greatest of lies (for you)only to be all that remains in the end.

Sometimes truth is a kind of love not many hearts can bear.

Hope is a poison we drink way too often.

The truth! The truth!Some minds wrote about -and yet - no truth;So I dared to write -but still there was no truth;So I call on truth itself,for it is knownand yet does not write;

When we paint, we paint with truth -and when live, we live without;so we dream and yet not sleepfor sleep takes our dreamsand does not trade it with doubt.

When we paint, we paint with truth -and when live, we live without it;so we dream and yet not sleepfor sleep takes our dreams;